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T,,E C3<*<* 
6 

MOSS-ROSE, 



A PARTING TOKEN. 

Edited by 
C. W. EVEREST. 



"What! not accept my foolish flower? 
Well, then I am indeed unblest." 



GURDON ROBINS, Jr. 180 MAIN STREET. 
1840. 






Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1840, by 

GURDON ROBINS, Jr. 
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Connecticut. 




IFFA I? AND CO 
ARL 8TKEKT 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

Wb were, some months since, requested by the 
Publisher of the present volume, to prepare for him 
a work which might serve as a suitable parting 
token. The result of our effort is now submitted to 
the public. The articles which compose it have all 
been furnished us by our native writers, and among 
them the reader will be pleased to recognize many 
an old acquaintance, not unknown to fame. 

" What's in a name ?" said he of Stratford-upon- 
Avon. Yet we found much difficulty in suiting 
ourself with one suitable for our little book. A 
friend suggested our present title. We like it : for 
we are a common-place lover of flowers in general, 
and of verses in particular. But this is all. We 
eschew all design at "blooming sentiment." We 
are no disciple of Flora, and plead ignorant even of 
the tender philosophy of her fair "Interpreter." 
For flowers, literal or metaphorical, we have not 
even a word. We left the entire subject to the pen 
of our friend who suggested our title, and whose 



iV ADVERTISEMENT, 

interesting article concludes our volume. The 
reader will linger with increased and saddened in- 
terest over it, when we say that its young and gifted 
author is, alas ! no more ! That unfolding flower 
of genius has been transplanted to the garden of God. 
In conclusion, we have only to add, that we have 
tried to please. If we shall be found to have failed, 
the fault will prove to have arisen from our own 
error of judgment in the design, rather than from 
the merits of our worthy and obliging correspond- 
ents. 

Truly the Public's obedient servant, 

THE EDITOR . 



INDEX. 



To Revenge, 


Anon. 


Page 
164 


Sonnet, 


Park Benjamin. 


62 


Something about flowers, 


R. Bacon, jr. 


171 


The Early Dead, Willis Oaylord Clark. 


5 


Old Letters, 


J. W. Dixon. 


7 


The Fountain of Youth, 


ii « 


60 


Carpe Diem, 


A. D. 


37 


The Young Mother, 


M 


63 


The Exile's Cave, 


D. E. G. 


44 


Tool of Bethesda, 


Mary Jinn Dodd. 


83 


Day Dreaming, 


(i <( 


112 







] 


Page 


To a Cricket, 


Mary Ann Dodd. 


132 


June, 


" 


(C 


138 


Song, 


it 


" 


161 


When in fond memory' 


e magic glass, 


Editor. 


29 


Song of the Sybil, 




u 


108 


The Seasons, 




(1 


118 


" Her spirit hath flown 


to its rest," 


M 


122 


Home of the Desolate, 




" 


129 


The friends we loved in childhood, 


« 


143 


The Evening Lay, 




H 


152 


Sonnets to J. D. 




u 


159 


November, 




Ex— r. 


31 


Stanzas, 




(i 


110 


The Life of Dreams, 




Falconer. 


13 


The Arab Steed, 




u 


33 


The Swallow, 




« 


140 


Song in June, 




« 


157 


My Sister, 




" 


161 


The Curfew Bell, 




« 


]79 



Musings— Joy, 


H. Greely. 


VII 

Page 
3 


The unmarked graves, 


U (I 


41 


Lines to my Sister, 


M. Gardner. 


136 


The Departure, 


u u 


155 


A walk in the Forest, 


M. L. Gardner. 


145 


Power and Mercy, 


W. J. Hamersley. 


90 


Sonnet, 


ii it 


41 


Scene from a MS. drama, 


TV. C. Hosmer. 


50 


The Turquoise ring, 


Lucy Hooper. 


148 


Oneiropolia, 


D. Lambert. 


21 


Sonnet, 


Ji. P. Marvin. 


168 


The waterfall, 


I. C. Pray. 


135 


The Dying Warrior, 


G. M. Snow. 


15 


The Land, 


u ii 


87 


Mary Stuart, 


., 


116 


The Moss Rose, 


Mrs. Sigourney. 


1 


The Native Village 


.. 


47 


The Lovers, 


u u 


107 



Summer Evening, 


Rev- R. Turnbull. 


Paga 
27 


Lines, 


u 


58 


A Child at Prayer, 


" 


114 


To Catharine, 


Rev. J. D. Tyler. 


65 


Sonnet, 


(i <t 


81 


A Letter from the Old Dominion, T. P. Tyler. 


173 


Iona— Fingal's Cave— Gianl 


;'s Causeway, 

A Traveller. 


53 


Cemetery, 


Rev. J. Williams. 


17 


Socrates, 


B. F. Watson. 


40 


Clarence De Coucy, 


J. T. Wait. 


89 


Thibault D'Auvergne, 


H. Walkley. 


123 



THE MOSS-ROSE 



THE MOSS-ROSE 
MAKING HER NEWYEAR's CALL. 

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOUENEY. 

"I've a call to make," said the rich Moss-Rose, 

" At the house of a lady fair, 
Cousin China-Rose, if you'll go with mo, 

I'll introduce you there. 

" 'Tis New- Year's day, come do not stay, 

But get on your cloak and hood ; 
You've mop'd so long by the green-house fire, 

That a walk will do you good." 

Then China's Yellow-Rose replied, 

" You've a terrible climate, dear ; 
It has made me old, before my time, 

And bilious too, I fear ! 

" But I'll put my muff and tippet on, 
Since you needs must have me go, 

And yet I'm sure I heard a blast, 
And saw a flake of snow." 

1 



I THE MOSS-UOSE. 

The Moss-Rose wrapp'd her damask robe 

Close round her queenly form, 
And led her nervous friend along, 

Who trembled at the storm. 

But the beautiful lady welcom'd them 

With such a radiant eye, 
That they fancied Summer had come again, 

And Winter was quite gone by. 

They took their India-rubbers off, 

And laid their hoods away, 
And whisper'd in each other's ear, 

" We should like to spend the day." 

She charm'd them with her tuneful voice, 

Till both were unable to stir ; 
So there they staid, — and the flowers of love 

Have found their home with her. 



MUSINGS JOY. 

BY H. GREELEY. 

" Spirit of Joy ! thy altar lies 

In youthful hearts that hope, like mine." 

Moore. 
I. 

They wrong thee, Thought ! the vain, the gay, 

Who deem thy spell with sorrow blent ; 
Who miss from out thy being's ray 

The placid smile of blithe content — 
Who mark thy shadow on the brow, 

Thy sometime wildness in the eye, 
And deem the soul must inly bow 

To Care's dull weight— to Misery's sigh. 



II. 



No ! — oft across my teeming brain 

Thy airy shapes, innumerous glide ; 
And phantasies,— a wayward train, — 

With sober Truth that realm divide : 
But all unmix'd with Gloom or Wo, 

Thy gentle influence o'er me steals : 
Ah ! half allied to Rapture's glow 

The spell thy ardent votary feels. 



THE MOSS-ROSE. 
III. 

Aye ! even in many a waking hour, 

Come dreams to madness near allied — 
The hope to scale the heights of power — 

A Nation's choice, a Senate's pride : 
Full well I know such thoughts but mock 

The mind to which no more is given : 
But humblest blade and loftiest oak 

Alike may rear their heads to heaven. 



IV. 



My dreams may fade, as dreams have faded, 

My heart congeal from Misery's chill : 
My path with Care and Wo be shaded ; 

Well— Hope enjoyed is Rapture still ! 
If 111 shall overcloud my morrow, 

Still Hope shall breathe, It cannot last ; 
And on the sombre clouds of Sorrow 

Reflect the sunshine of the Past. 



Mew- York, 1839. 



THE EARLY DEAD. 



THE EARLY DEAD. 

BY WILLIS GAYLORD CLARK. 

When into dust, like dewy flowers departed, 

From our dim paths the bright and lovely fade ; 
The fair in form— the pure— the gentle-hearted, 

Whose looks within the breast a Sabbath made- 
How, like a whisper on the inconstant wind, 
The memory of their voices stirs the mind ! 

We hear the song, the sigh, the fitful laughter, 
That from their lips in balm were wont to flow, 

When Hope's beguiling wing they hurried after, 
And drank her syren music, long ago : 

When Joy's bright harp to sweetest lays was strung, 

And poured ri'jh numbers for the loved and young. 

When the pale stars are burning high in heaven — 
When the low night-winds kiss the flowering tree, 

And thoughts are deepening in the hush of even, 
How soft those voices on the heart will be ! 

They breathe of raptures that have bloomed and 

Of sorrows by remembrance sanctified. [died — 

Yet when the loved have from our pathway vanish- 
What potent magic can their smiles restore 1 [ed, 

Like some gay sunburst, by the tempest banished, 
They passed in darkness— they will come no more ; 



b THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Unlike the daybeams, when the storm hath fled, 
No light renewed breaks on their lowly bed. 

And yet what mourner, though the thoughtful eye 
Be dim and tremulous with burning tears, 

But should with rapture gaze upon the sky, 
Through whose far depths the spirit's whig ca- 
reers? 

There light immortal o'er their home is flung, 

Who fade from earth while yet their years are young 

Philadelphia. 



OLD LETTERS. 



OLD LETTERS. 

BY J. DIXON. 

Old Letters! What are they but wings, not the 
less Daedalian for the wax with which haply they 
are sealed, on which we may be wafted back, in 
spirit, over the Gulf of Years, to the shores of the 
happy past 7 Are we not young again, re-reading 
these forgotten histories 1 Seem they not like those 
dim remembrances of another world, which some- 
times haunt us, teaching that 

" The soul that rises with us — our life's star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And cometh from afar ? " 

Docs not the shadow on the dial go back — does not 
life stand still, as we linger over these still-speaking 
heralds of the past 1 Do I dream, or is it thy face, 
N.T. R. — dimly pictured — growing slowly more dis- 
tinct — that I see on that neatly-written sheet — the 
elegant chirography, fit emblem of thyself? Me- 
thinks thy smile was gayer. 

Alas ! that our youth is not eternal ! — But my 
theme is not sad ; pardon me, sweet lady — it is my 
mood. 

There is but one thing for which I cannot forgive 

Ellen . That she should request me to return 

her letters— was too much. I have them all in my 



8 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

memory, but The handwriting— the sheet on 

which the delicate fingers have rested — and on one, 
ye gods, 'tis true ! — the deep stain of one full, heavy 
tear ! Can any thing repay the loss of these 1 

Gentle reader ! — I feel that I speak to your heart. 
Is there not, locked carefully in some precious 
casket, a letter — perhaps more than one — every word 
of which is engraven on your memory, yet which you 
read, it may be daily, striving to find some new and 
hidden meaning in its familiar sentences ? It speaks 
perchance of love, and proves — that your lover is 
careless. Eschew love-letters, let me say. 

I fancy I can determine a man's character from 
his letters. If his sentiments are disguised, some- 
thing, if it be but the handwriting, will betray him. 
I wish for no better physiognomy. Who would not 
see thee, A. S. C— with thy epiiet smile, and deep 
thoughts, flowing like a full river, calm, still, but 
mighty, uttered with an unpretending voice — in thy 
elegant and pithy letters? And thou, too, sweet 
Florence, — whom alone, of earthly maidens, I re- 
member in my solitude — hast thou not depicted 
thine own elegant mind in those sky-blue, gilt-edged 
folios 1 I have not forgotten thee ; and it may be, 
on some shady, bird-haunted island — afar down the 
River of Time — we may meet again. And thou, 

Ellen , whom I have said I can never forgive, 

for recalling those carrier pigeons of thy heart, thine 
own sweet letters — was not their fitful and passion 
ate eloquence a type of thyself— a spiritual portrait, 
more perfect than any work of human art — an im- 
age of thy soul 1 

How strangely it strikes one to fall in, accident- 



OLD LETTERS. 9 

ally, with tin old letter of one's own writing ! It is 
like meeting a half-forgotten friend. We should 
know those thoughts ; but when, or where we made 
their acquaintance, we cannot, for our life, remem- 
ber. Yet we would believe they can scarcely be 
our own. The wit, we would fain think, was keen- 
er — its spirit must have evaporated as the ink has 
paled— and the sentiments were less trite. In how 
short a time have those startling paradoxes grown 
truisms ! Even the handwriting, which we had 
once fondly deemed almost beautiful — how sadly 
old age has cramped it ! And the style, too— but we 
write better now. 

We may not live alway. Our life is but a dream 
of misery, from which, too often I fear, we awake 
to the reality. There is but one solace for human 
suffering, and that is human love. It is the soul's 
aliment. Therefore do I love a letter, old or new — 
for the new will soon be old. They are the messen- 
gers of" love and friendship — the winged Mercuries 
of the heart ; and in their old age shall they be for- 
gotten ? They have served their day — they have 
finished their course ; tears from sorrowing eyes 
have fallen upon them, glad hearts have leaped with 
joy over them, and now shall they be neglected and 
despised ? I would not use a brute thus. Yet there 
be many who have no ears for the mute voice of an 
old letter ; they forget how it thrilled them once ; 
they remember not the trembling hands with which 
the seal was broken, and the joy or the sorrow 
which it inspired is forgotten. 

I have a fondness for antiquity in general : and 
w hat grows old sooner than a letter ? Age is merely 



10 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

relative, and this letter under my hand, that has 
come all the way from Georgia, since November, is 
older than the Madeira that sparkles beside it. It is 
a great merit to grow old rapidly, and while the 
wine has been mellowing — not over two voyages — 
how many an old letter has grown a perfect ruin ! 

A ruin! Who would not wish to gaze, before 
death closes Ins eyes for ever, on a magnificent, 
time-worn ruin of the old world 1 Mouldering col- 
umns, threatening arches, overhanging walls, dim 
aisles, and dark, deep dungeons — all that remains of 
frowning castles, within whose shelter, in the glori- 
ous days of chivalry, the dwellers in the wild coun- 
try around sought refuge ; what heart would not 
throb, gazing on these awful relics ? Mighty men 
and beautiful women have caused the glad music of 
life to resound through those broad passages, and 
now — where are they? Silence — death's music — 
is over and around them. Let them sleep ! 

But — smile not, I am serious — an old letter is a 
nobler, gloomier ruin than the proudest edifice that 
ever crumbled to the earth. What hopes and fears, 
and joys and griefs, were once centred in its tear- 
dimmed pages ! Could you but read the history of 
that letter, it would teach you that the humblest in- 
terests of the human heart are as important as the 
weal or wo of monarchs. Perchance it was written 
in grief—perchance in joy. It told, perhaps, of tho 
death of a friend, a brother, a parent. It may be 
that long cherished hopes were blighted by its heart- 
crushing intelligence. Perfidy, ingratitude, treach- 
ery, may have been there exhibited. Perchance in 
solitude and sadness that sheet was read, and over 



OLD LETTERS. 11 

it the heart was broken, and then commenced the 
first moment of a life of despair ! It speaks, per- 
haps, of affections estranged, of love grown cold. 
Or, perhaps, to some sweet maiden, blooming like 
the wild flower of her own native valleys, it brought 
the first assurance of his love, whom in silence and 
solitude her heart had wedded long before, unknown 
even to itself. 

Of all letters, a love-letter alone is not improved 
by age. Witness the profane glee of a maiden of 
sixteen, over the torn and blurred sheets newly dis- 
covered in the garret, setting forth the love of her 
honored father for the sweet Isabella Bellville, now 
no less a person than her own careful mother. It 
is, — it is the self-same dignified handwriting. How 
ill befitting it seems to those soft sentiments ! Alas ! 
twenty years have unetherealised his angel. The 
seraph has become a mortal — no longer, 

too bright and good, 
For human nature's daily food. 

The goddess has become a housewife. She excels 
in recipes ; she looks to the main chance ; she saves 
the fragments ! 

Ye who affect the tender passion — if ye must write 
down your love, burn, I beseech you, on your wed- 
ding night, your letters — if their heat have not alrea- 
dy consumed them. Those vows and protestations 
will embitter many a sweet quarrel— their perusal, 
believe me, will be any thing but refreshing, after a 
reconciliation. 

My amusement, of a melancholy hour, is looking 



12 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

over my old letters, male and female. I forget my 
friendless, bachelor estate, as I linger over the crow- 
quill traces of many a delicate female's autograph. 
If a poor pun could console me, I might remember 
that they gave ine their hands. Hearts, I fear me, 
much, they had none. 



THE LTFE OF DREAMS. 13 



THE LIFE OF DREAMS. 

BY WILLIAM FALCONER. 
1. 

How sweet to live over again in a dream 

Lost hours which for ever have fled ; [stream, 
To sit 'mong the flowers, by the Past's pictured 

And discourse with the beautiful dead ! 
2. 
To roam through the woods where our Infancy trod, 

As gay as the spring-birds above ; 
O then the free spirit is nearer its God, 

For it floats on the pinions of Love. 

3. 
Come, repose thee, my friend, in this musical wood, 

And I'll tell thee my dream of last night ! 
Mcthought by the grave of the loved one I stood, 

As faded the West's purple light : 

4. 
And that like Aurora she rose from the grave, 

As fresh to the eye as when last 
Together we sat by the wild-wooded wave, 

In the far summer days of the Past ! 



Methought where the beam of her azure eye fell, 
All grew bright as when feeling was young ; 

For the landscape of Childhood remembered so well, 
Around us by magic was flung. 



14 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



And together we roamed to the old ruined tower, 

Where the wild flowers like fairy gifts bloom : 
And my spirit forgot in that mystical bower 

My love had e'er slept in the tomb. 
7. 
And we loved, as we loved in the years long ago, 

And my heart beat with rapture as then ; 
For its pulses were free from the bondage of woe, 

And was e'en in its spring-time again. 

8. 
O, to live for an hour in that vision once more, 

I would barter all earth can impart : 
But Fancy's kaleidoscope ne'er can restore 

That dream to my sorrowing heart. 

9. 
As the bark when becalmed in the blue southern 

Descries some fair island of peace, [main 

But, severed by storms, never finds it again — 

So parted my vision of bliss ! 
10. 
No juice of the poppy, nor fabulous spell, 

Nor the sage's most coveted lore, 
Can rebuild that fair fabric of slumber that fell 

Into ruin, like joys that are o'er ! 

Paris, Feb. 17, 1838. 



THE DYING WARRIOR. 



THE DYING WARRIOR. 

BY G. M. SNOW. 

" Oh ! place me on my old war horse, 

And place my spear in rest ; 
And gird the spur upon my heel, 

The corslet on my breast : 
I would don my harness once again, 

I would ride one more career — 
For I love the wail of the stirring trump, 

The glaive, and the oaken spear. 

" I would I could see on the breezes free 

My banner once more flung out ! 
I would that these failing cars might hear 

Once more my battle shout ! 
Oh ! place me on Selim's back again, 

I would die in my warrior's mail— 
The spirit of old will bear me up, 

Though the wasted flesh may fail ! 

" So ! I am young ! Death to the Moor ! 

I ride with as free a rein 
As when I trampled the Payniin down, 

On the bloody fields of Spain ! 
Advance my banner ! my heart leaps high 

At the sight of its folds again ! 
Ho ! Charge, as ye charged in days of yore, 

And God, in his might, for Spain ! 



16 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

The spear has dropped from his powerless gr; 

He has broken a lance with Death : 
He will mount no more for the battle field, 

At the trumpet's warning breath: 
He sleeps with the great of his noble line — 

But Decay's corrupting touch 
Cannot dim one word of his epitaph — 

" Sans peur et sans reproche '." 



BLEEPING-PI.ACE. J7 



KolftqTiipi'ov. 



jphia Greek word, from wiich our' Cemetery' in derived, signifies 

'Sleeping-place.' 

BY KEV. J. WILLIAMS. 

Not home of death we call thee, Churchyard, then, 
Man's resting place ; 
Sweet couch for misery, 
To poor and humble free, 

— Who have God's grace, 
And willing yield their souls to him again: — 
Where all sleep sweetly, side by side, 
Nor harm can come, nor ill betide. 

Blast bed of rest ! beneath the summer flowers 
We quiet sleep ; 
While mid the shadowy trees, 
That moan with passing breeze, 
And o'er us weep, 
Sweet birds do warble to the passing shower ; 
Or 'chance at eve, our spirits come, 
And hover o'er their ancient home. 

Why should they not ? The day will come 'tis known 
When we must rise, 
And in our bodily form, 
With life and being warm, 
See with our eyes, 



18 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

The vision of our Judge on cloud built throne. 
Why then may not the soul keep ward, 
O'er temples of the living Lord ? 

Sweet couch ! untroubled rest ! oh thou dost seem 
A blessing high, 
The great God doth ordain ; 
And though it be short pain, 
To close the eye, 
In that deep sleep that knows no fearful dream, 
Yet if we sleep in Christ, we know 
We wake to bliss, and sleep to woe. 



POWER AND MERCY. 19 

POWER AND MERCY. 

BY WILLIAM JAMES HAMERSLEY. 

It comes ! th' oppressive air is motionless, 
And Nature seems like one, who, passion-wrought, 
Will, fixed and breathless, for one moment stand, 
Before he gives the madd'ning impulse way. 
The sky is all concealed by murky clouds, 
Whose deep-toned murmurs give a sense of awe, 
And with a sad foreboding weigh us down ; 
The waves in mighty undulation swell, 
Making fantastic foam-wreaths in the air, 
And, in their mad rebellion rushing on, 
Aspire to their funereal canopy, 
Uprising with their wild and whitened locks, 
Like old prophetic seers denouncing woe .' 
Now reels the maelstrom like a maniac's brain, 
And now the lightning fires the autumn woods, 
And like invading hosts, the lurid flames 
Pass by in wrath, and leave no sign behind 
Save desolation. The avalanche rolls down, 
Gath'ring new strength at each successive bound, 
At once a shroud, a monument, a grave ! 

The red volcano belches out its fires, 
And sends its lava-fury through the towns, 
Pelting great cities with its burning stones, 
As if the works of men were playthings all. 



20 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Thunders above ! beneath ! within the ground, 
The mighty earthquake swells its fearful wrath, 
And soon from its imprisonment bursts forth, 
As on the Judgment-day the dead will come : 
Commanding cities, lordly palaces, 
High tow'rs, proud fanes, and boastful works of art, 
Are crushed within the hollow of its hand. 
Like the dark fiend of hell, foul pestilence, 
Stalking in horrid stillness is abroad, 
And gathers up his helpless prey in flocks, 
And gives them to his pulseless master, Death ! 
The sand-wrought columns o'er the desert stalk 
In fearfulncss, like giant misanthropes, 
And glide as victors o'er their fallen foes. 
The whirlwinds' awful sound ! God's clarion ! 
The forcst-monarchs bend their lofty heads, 
And bending not enough, like fragile reeda 
Are broken. 

Oh ! how full of strength is God ! 
Ocean and earth reveal his might and povv'r, 
And the loud, and chainless winds, proclaim it. 
Oh ! will he not in wrath destroy the world, 
And set his mighty engines all at work, 
To sweep poor man from his creation off? 

Away vain fear ! the writing of his hand 
Is now appearing in the firmament : 
Ye who saw his might, behold his mercy ! 
Behold God's covenant upon the clouds! 



ESSAY ON DREAMS. 21 



'OvsipoTroXict. 



AN ESSAY ON DREAMS. 
BY DAVID LAMBERT. 

" We are such stuff as dreams are made of," says 
the immortal Bard of Avon. This is one of those 
fine, impressive sayings that pass into proverbs. 
We reiterate them— we acknowledge their justice — 
hut we rarely analyze or examine them. Of the 
thousands and tens of thousands who may reasona- 
bly he supposed to have repeated the line we have 
quoted, how few have ever felt their true force, or 
inquired of themselves, " What is this ' stuff that 
dreams are made of 1 ' " What are dreams, or what 
affinity do they bear to our waking visions 1 

Philosophically considered, dreams are but the 
continuation of our waking reveries. In sleep the 
fancy, unrestricted by the stern vigilance of reason, 
untrammelled by the presence of surrounding ob- 
jects, runs riot— sometimes gracefully wandering in 
the flowery paths of pleasure, calling the smile of 
delight to the unconscious lips of beauty, or to the 
sterner features of manhood. At others, wildly 
rushing into the midst of scenes of pain, of anguish, 
and of hopeless misery. At one time the dreamer 
basks in the sunshine of prosperity, and roves in the 
gardens of Love. "The wealth of Ormus and of 
Ind" is poured out before him — The houris of Ma- 
homet's paradise bewitch him with the gentle lustre 



22 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

of their eyes— Scenes of enchantment swell on his 
astonished gaze — Banquets fit for the gods await 
his taste— The music of Heaven is warbled in his 
ears. Anon, the scene shifts— He is alone, among 
rocks, and deserts and wild beasts — he starts, he 
trembles, he fears some nameless, horrible, disaster ; 
he tries to fly, but his limbs refuse to carry him : 
he is chained to the spot— a feeling of utter hope- 
lessness overcomes him ; he is doomed. The cold 
sweat gathers on his brow, — physical excitement 
conquers sleep, and with a gasp of agony he starts 
awake ! 

The same states of mental action which produce 
these different results, would, in waking moments, 
cause feelings of unwonted exhilaration or of cor- 
responding depression : what are termed in common 
parlance, good or bad spirits, — moments of inspira- 
tion, or of utter despondency. 

The good old days when " old men saw visions, 
and young men dreamed dreams," are now gone by. 
The fantastical wanderings of the sleeper's imagina- 
tion are no longer invested with that deep import- 
ance with which they were formerly clad. The 
march of intellect and the advance of science has 
stripped from their illusions the pranks of the fairy 
queen Mab. The portals of Ivory and of Horn are 
no longer opened for the egress of nocturnal spirits. 
The night Hag now only appears in the wake of a 
champagne supper or a turtle feast. The romance 
of dreams is mostly fled. Still in the quiet villages 
of sober New England, and even in sometime-hon- 
ored nooks of our large cities, a few venerable spin- 
sters may be found, whose religious belief in the 






ESSAY ON DREAMS. 23 

mysterious character of dreams is unshaken and 
unimpaired by the profane scoffings of the rising 
generation. They have dreamed dreams that were 
the sure precursors of the events they so faithfully 
foretold. Never has a death happened in the circle 
of their acquaintance, but three times thrice it has 
been revealed to them in sleep — nor a marriage of 
which they have not had similar mysterious pre- 
admonitions. The Seven Sleepers of the Eastern 
tale, who certainly enjoyed the longest nap on re- 
cord, could not have had a more miscellaneous se- 
ries of nocturnal visions. 

Alas ! we put no faith in dreams. Would that we 
could ; some days would surely await us were they 
to be fulfilled, that would richly compensate many 
a weary year of toil. Who is there that has not in 
dreams found himself by the side of some lovely 
girl, wandering in the wild green wood ! Deep si- 
lence reigning around, only broken by the occasion- 
al note of some forest warbler— there has he loiter- 
ed — it would seem for hours of deep and ever vary- 
ing delight—then the warm words of passion, of 
deep unquenchable love, that he would pour from 
the inmost recesses of his heart, and the crystal tear 
in that downcast eye, the heightened blush of that 
lovely cheek, the heaving of that swelling bosom, 
as the lips of the sweetest creation of a poet's fancy 
breathed forth in soft and broken accents those 
words which made his happiness unspeakable! 
Oh, the pity of ever waking from such a dream ! 

Our good old bachelor friend Horatius is some- 
thing of a visionary ; and it was one of these dreams 
that lately tempted him to revisit, after an absence 



24 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

of many years, the scene of his boyish days. " The 
companions of my youthful sports," said he to us, 
as we talked the matter over after his return, " the 
first dream of early love, and the form of the sweet 
village girl who had made the first impressions on a 
school boy's heart — all of whom I grieve to confess 
had been nearly obliterated from my memory by 
the active business of an absorbing profession, — ap- 
peared before me in a dream, with all the freshness 
of reality. It seemed that ' Love's young dream' 
again revived, more subtily than ever, beguiled 
my senses, and my own sweet Mary was lovelier 
than the ' Peris of Paradise.' " Alas for our good 
old-bachelor friend ! The ardor of his imagination 
overleaped the lapse of years, and the occupations 
of a busy life had kept him in ignorance of the news 
of his almost forgotten village. Time may well be 
called " edax rerum," the devourer of all things. 
Some of our friend's early companions had been sum- 
moned by the inexorable tyrant to their long account. 
Over others, a wave of his magic glass and a touch of 
the fatal sickle, had spread the transforming garb of 
age. Above all, Mary, his Mary — the "inexpres- 
sive" vision of his sleeping and waking dreams for 
the last weary month — weary till he could once 
more find himself in her bewitching presence, — Ms 
Marij was introduced to her half incredulous, and 
wholly disappointed lover,as Mrs. Nehemiah Stubbs ! 
Nor was the occupation of his fair one more roman- 
tic than the name for which she had exchanged the 
more euphoneous title of Mary Warner. He found 
her — not as Werter first met his Charlotte, cutting 
with ineffable grace bread and butter for her little 



ESSAY ON DREAMS. 25 

brothers and sisters — but, surrounded by a group of 
little flaxen headed urchins, seriously superintend- 
ing the manufacture of an immense cheese ! Hero 
was a Bathos — a countercheck — a repulsion. Mar- 
ried, and to a Stuhbs ! So altered, too. Where was 
that delicacy of form, and soft bright eye which had 
won his boyish heart t And such a horrible occu- 
pation — making a cheese! In two hours Horatiua 
was on his way to the city, where, buried in the 
penetralia of his Law office, he made haste to for- 
get his disappointment, and never more put faith in 
dreams. ******** 

One of the most remarkable circumstances at- 
tending dreams, is the sort of double existence with 
which our sleeping visions are often gifted. Thus 
we sometimes will seem to stand one side and watch 
the working of a passion, or the development of an 
adventure of which we ourselves are the subjects. 
We seem to lose our individuality, or to possess a 
two-fold being. Our sensations are something as 
we may suppose, had they the power of reason and 
reflection, would be felt by those marine animals or 
zoophytes in whom the separation of the body pro- 
duces not death, but each part continues to exist a 
distinct and separate being. There is something 
strange in a dream of this nature. It seems to lift 
the curtain, and give a faint glimpse of a future 
and incomprehensible state of being. 

Who would undertake to classify dreams 1 Their 
species are more numerous than the sands of the 
sea-shore. Sometimes they are as simple as the 
plainest thought of our waking moments— at others 
complex,— involved,— eccentric. Oft times we will 



26 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

dream that we are dreaming, and try in our sleep to 
waken from our trance, at others a dream will 
6eem to re-commence at some pqint where it had 
left off before — and appear like the narration of a 
tale to be clearly and consistently-continued. 

We have somewhere read of a German student 
who, by long care and much training, possessed the 
mastery over his dreams ; so that before committing 
himself to sleep he could regulate at will the enter- 
tainments of his nocturnal hours. He was poor in 
purse and feeble in health; but in his dreams he 
was richer than the famous king of Lydia — robust 
as the mature Hercules. All the splendors of wealth 
and power were gathered around him, and stretched 
on his humble pallet, he ruled the destinies of imagi- 
nary nations. What was the real existence of this 
man ? In sleep, continuously and regularly, night af- 
ter night, a powerful emperor — waking, a humble 
peasant. Who shall say he was not as much the for- 
mer, as the latter ? What are our waking moments, 
but strange, wild dreams ? Who that receives some 
sudden accession of fortune, does not secretly pinch 
his arm or bite his lip, to prove that he is not dream- 
ing; thereby showing the narrow distinction be- 
tween the day-dream, and the vision of the night ! 

"We are such stuff 
As dreams are made of; and our little life 
Is rounded with a sleep." 

JVcmj- York, Oct. 1838. 



SUMMER EVENING. 27 

SUMMER EVENING. 

BY THE REV. R. TURNBUXL. 

The (lay declines— the garish light is gone, 
And over hill and dale the twilight falls ; 

The star of eve begins to smile alone 
In her far western bower ; the night-bird calls 

Unto her mate, in wild, melodious tone ; 
Whilst on the listening ear the murmur falls 

Of a small brook, which gladly rolls along, 

And softly mingles with the milk-maid's song. 

I seek the river's brink, whose placid breast 
Mirrors the brightness of that lovely star, 

Which, from its high and hallowed place of rest, 
Looks down on sinful men, who, from afar, 

Regard it as some region of the blest, 
Who, having passed the dark, untrodden bar 

That bounds the tide of time, have reached the 
shore, 

" Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar." 

The fresh and balmy winds which crisp the wave, 
And send a ripple to the pebbly shore, 

My flushed and burning temples sweetly lave, 
And to the troubled mind its peace restore, 

Which erewhile wandered by the gloomy grave 
Of its lost hopes, or heard the dismal roar 

Of life departing to the tideless sea 

Of a dim, dark, untried eternity. 



28 THE MOSS-HOSE. 

The hush of eve — the murmur of the stream — 
The mirrored beauty of its placid breast — 

The memory of the past — my childhood's dream, 
The breezes wandering to their place of rest, 

The lonely star of eve, which I might deem 
The pure and cherished home of spirits blest, 

Come o'er me with a soft and hallowed spell, 

And all the gloom of thought and care dispel. 

Alone, with nature, and with God I stand ! 

And the soolhed spirit folds her wings in peace ; 
Whilst o'er it comes the shade of that far land, 

Where care-worn mortals find a sweet release 
From all the ills of life, at God's right hand ; 

W T here care and sorrow shall forever cease, 
And o'er the mounting spirit beam the ray 
Of unobstructed, everlasting day ! 



WHEN IN FOND MEMORY'S MAGIC GLASS 29 



WHEN IN FOND MEMORY'S MAGIC GLASS. 

When in fond Memory's magic glass, 

With earnest eye intent we gaze, 
And there in quick succession pass 

The buried joys of former days : 
We read Life's folded leaves again, 

Scenes that of erst we loved so well — 
When young Love wove his flowery chain, 

And Hope her magic spell ! 

And Childhood's happy home is there, 

And Childhood's free and blithesome hours : 
Again we prove a mother's care, 

'Neath young Life's radiant morning bowers ; 
A reverend father bows him then, 

Fervent his gladsome child to bless ; 
Brothers and sisters join again 

In Love's endeared caress. 

Then, when Time rolls his years along, 
We rove the flowery paths of youth, 

We list to Hope's delusive song, 
And deem her golden promise truth : 

Bright beam the skies above our head- 
Fair are the vales beneath our feet — 

Onward we rush with eager tread, 
To scenes with joy replete ! 



30 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

The dead — the dead — the peaceful dead, 

Come crowding from the spirit laud ! 
Again we list the well known tread — 

Again we grasp the friendly hand ; 
We gaze on each familiar face, 

Loved in our early hour of pride ; 
And joyous in the fond embrace, 

We deem they have not died ! 

Thus, when in Memory's magic glass, 

With lingering glance we fondly gaze, 
And there in quick succession pass 

The loved, the lost, of other days ; 
Again we live those seasons fair, 

And love those scenes we loved so well ; 
And weep when Earth's returning care 

Has broke the spirit-spell ! 

C. W. E. 



NOVEMBER. 31 



NOVEMBER 



1. 

These raving winds that chide the silent glade, 
And frowning clouds that ride the air above, 
And plains where frost has bleached the tender 
blade, 
Of all which nature wears, the most I love. 
' 2. 

Thus was it not in boyhood's better hour, 

When wildly bounding with the free bird's wing, 
My bosom blessed the first low dawning flower, 
And carolled to the breeze of coming spring. 
3. 
But hearts like seasons change. The bud that 
breathes 
Upon the glebe, bleak winter will destroy ; 
And ice must clasp the bough that summer wreathes ; 
So fate can wither up the young soul's joy. 

4. 
Yon twilight hue which fleets away so pale, 

The nightly shadows hast'ning chill and fast, 
The faded herb along the tuneless vale, 

The sapless reed that shivers in the blast — 
6. 
The lonely elm, which, bending o'er the stream, 

Resigns its last gray leaf amid the tide, 
Where once it saw, beneath a kindlier beam, 

Its summer tresses mirrored fair and wide — 



33 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

6. 
The bird that lingers mute upon the spray, 

Her nest deserted, yet again to view, 
Before she wings afar her exile way, 
Of me and mine, is each an emblem true. 
7. 
And thou! — Yet why an image ever bring 

To haunt the grave of buried hopes mildest, 
And siir the last, black, bitter dregs that cling 
Like poisoned fangs within this callous breast ? 
8. 
That dream an orphan's craving long had fed, 

And wanned with rosy beams his dreary state; 
But ah! too late the sweet delirium fled, 
He woke, and all was void and desolate. 
9. 
Can spring with all her light and laughing bloom, 

Her gushing music and her breezes bland, 
One ray of gladness shed upon his doom, 
Till welcome death the homeless wretch demand ? 
10. 
Better the sallow leaf, the vineyard shorn, 

The scathed limb that angry gusts have riven, 
The hollow stalk bereft of golden corn, 
And blooinless wastes and dearth, to him be given. 
11. 
Nature, an hour for all thou'st made aright! 

A season fair to shine on happy hearts; 
A darker hour to meet the spirit's blight, 
When all but breath and bitterness, departs. 
Ex R. 



THE ARAB STEED. 33 

THE ARAB STEED. 

BY WILLIAM FALCONER. 

The wounded sheik lay bound in chains, 

But his Arab heart beat high, 
As he thought upon his tented plains, 

Where pastoral palm-trees sigh : 
He pondered on the wealth of Life 

Squandered like worthless store — 
Of his brave companions in the strife, 

Now blackcning-in their gore ! 

His spirit sunk into a dream — 

The vultures fierce he saw 
By a red carnage-cumbered stream 

Their pulseless bosoms gnaw : 
He viewed his stately patriarch tent, 

With his fair boys at play : 
He heard their careless merriment, 

And Abla's love-taught lay. 

Fond one ! she knew not that the morn 

Would shine the last for him, 
Else would she rend her locks forlorn, 

Else were her dark eye dim : 
That Chief had looked in Death's dark face, 

From Youth, without a fear ; 
Yet in his eye you then might trace 

The semblance of a tear. 
3 ^ 



34 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

But deem not 'twas bis own dark doom 

Bade that warm tribute start : 
It was— that on his slighted tomb 

Would break that loving heart ! 
What rouses his lost thoughts at length ? 

A desert steed's wild neigli : 
Free, as when glorying in his strength 

He joins the battle fray. 

" My steed ! I knew thy neigh full well, 

Thou rival of the gale ! 
Long shall the desert minstrel tell 

Thine and thy master's tale : 
And shall thou never more career 

Athwart the desert wide, 
My noble barb, but linger here, 

Neglected in thy pride 1 

"Yes !" as he spoke, his lord forgot 

His hastening doom, and crept, 
Though bleeding, fired by generous thought, 

Midst free that heedless slept, 
Until he found his noble steed, 

Then gnawed his cord apart, 
With fastly failing strength, and freed 

The sharer of his heart. 



«' Now speed thee hence, my noble one, 

And seek my regal tent, 
And tell that ere to-morrow's sun 

Shall Kaled's breath be spent ! 



THE ARAB STEED. 35 

Say to my black-eyed Abla, too, 

In vain shall she deplore, 
And the blue distant mountains view, 

For Kaled comes no more ! 

" Away !"— the earth the bold barb spurned, 

And scorned the sandy plain : 
But swiftly to his lord returned, 

As though he felt the rein, 
And gazed — and neighed — then in his teeth 

He seized the dying sheik 
And bore him safe from savage death, 

Ere morning's bloody streak. 

Away ! o'er mount and desert waste, 

Away ! through torrent's foam, 
The steed and fainted rider haste 

Unto their patriarch home ! 
The goal is reached— the race is o'er, 

Ere waned that fated night : 
The Chief is saved— but ah ! no more 

His steed shall view the light. 

Beneath the tent's broad sycamore, 

Upon the lilied turf, 
He gasps for life, besmeared with gore, 

And foam, like Ocean's surf: 
Yet still upon his lord he keeps 

His dimmed black eye with pride, 
Who, weary, worn, unconscious i 

With Abla by his side ! 



36 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Bold barb ! the desert harp shall swell 

Its proudest song for thee ; 
And pilgrims by the shady well 

Vaunt thy fidelity. 
When heroes fell, each high strung lyre 

Awoke a kindred lay : 
Nor didst thou without song expire, 

For thou wert bold as they. 

Paris, Nov. 18, 1837. 

[Tbc subject of this anecdote in rhyme is taken 
from Lainartine's " Travels in the East," vol. iii.] 



37 



Lero. ' 
Horace. 



STANZAS. 

" Carpe diem, quam minimum creiUila post 

BY CHAUNCEY L. DAVIS. 

" Carpe diem ;" catch the fleeting 

Pleasures of the present day, 
While the pulse of health is heating, 

And the strength knows no decay. 

" Carpe diem ;" for the morrow, 
Dark within the Future's womb, 

May bring with it care and sorrow, 
Or shine upon thy new made tomb. 

Odors rich the halls are lading, 

And thy brows are crowned with flowers ; 
Those shall perish, these are fading, 

Catch then quick the fleeting hours. 

Such thy lesson, jovial Flaccus, 

Such thy practice, gentle bard ; 
The smiles of Venus and of Bacchus 

Were for thee a rich reward. 

Yet, Horace, well enough thou knewest 
Thy precept and thy practice vain ; 

That fleeting joys are never truest, 
That pleasure needs the rest of pain. 



38 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Though the wine-cup sparkles brightly, 
Though with joy each face is flushed, 

Though song and toast and jest pass lightly, 
And all thought of care seems hushed ; 

View the "banquet hall deserted," 
As morning there her splendor spreads ; 

All the guests have now departed, 
But with aching hearts and heads. 

The cups are drained ; the deep libation 
Which on Pleasure's shrine they poured, 

All has proved a vain oblation 
To the god whom they adored. 

See around the scattered roses, 
Faded all, and trampled down ; 

The head which now in pain reposes 
Wore them as a joyous crown. 

Yes ! they thought not of the morrow ; 

Well the precept they obeyed ; 
No share from future care they borrow, 

Yet by present sweets betrayed. 

Wisdom teaches that the pleasures 
Which the passing moment brings, 

Like all other earthly treasures, 
Fly away with hasty wings. 

" Fugit hora ;" swiftly by us 
Flits the Hour that bears away 

All the sorrows here that try us, 
All the joys that gild our stay. 



STANZAS. 33 

" Fugit hora ;" live then rightly ; 

Take life's pleasure with its pain ; 
Live as though, when sleeping nightly, 

Thou may'st never wake again ! 



40 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



SONNET. 

TO HOWARD. 

If I could make my Harp's tone pure and sweet, 
As freshest odor, on the freshest gale, 
When healthiest breathings of the spring prevail, 
Then would it, Howard, be no more than meet, 
That I should choose its softest strain for thee ; 
Thou for whose welfare, sick and poor did pray, 
Thou who thro' poisoned air did'st wend thy way, 
To heal thy fellow-man in misery ; 
But my weak strain can only hint thy worth, 
Thou much-loved blessing to thy fellow-dust, 
Yet let me utt'rance give to my firm trust, 
That thou did'st leave for better worlds this earth, 
And dost in scenes to mortal eye unknown, 
Rejoice with spirits, lovely as thine own. 

W. J. H. 



THE UNMARKED GRAVES. 41 



THE UNMARKED GRAVE*. 



A bleak and lonely burial-place — 

Two graves without a stone — 
There slumber, in cold Earth's embrace, 

The loved — the early flown. 
Brother and sister ! side by side 

Their mouldering forms repose ; 
And, distant far, my heart's full tide 

Heaves to that shrine of woes. 



IT. 



True, Time has rolled his wasting flood 

O'er many changing years, 
Since near their rest, a child, I stood 

— I have no longer tears. 
Yet still the thought will sadly press 

On Memory's pensive hours, 
Of those o'er whose dark lowliness 

Bloom Spring's most fragile flowers. 

III. 

And, westward far, at midnight, swells 

A mother's anxious breast, 
With dreams of him who lonely dwells, 

Of them who calmly rest: 



42 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Unbidden pearls of treasured love 

From that full fount run o'er, 
As greets she those who here shall move 

That breast to joy no more. 

IV. 

Brother and sister ! well ye sleep 

Within your narrow graves, 
Undreaming of the spell we keep 

In Memory's crystal caves. 
Sleep on, beloved ! through all Earth's gloom, 

This joy to us is given, 
To deem ye victors o'er the tomb, 

And know of such is Heaven. 
New York, 1838. II. G. 



THE NATIVE VILLAGE. 43 



THE NATIVE VILLAGE. 

BY MRS. L.H. SIGOURNEY. 

Sweetly wild, sweetly wild, 
Were the scenes that charm'd me when a child. 
Rocks, grey rocks, with their caverns dark, 
Leaping rills, like the diamond spark, 
Torrent voices, thundering by, 
When the pride of the vernal floods swell'd high, 
And quiet roofs, like the hanging nest, 
'Mid cliffs, by the feathery foilage drest. 

Beyond, in those woods, did the wild-rose grow, 
And the lily gleam out where the lakelets flow, 
And the trailing arbutus shroud its grace, 
Till its fragrance bewray'd its hiding-place, 
And the woodbine hold to the dews its cup, 
And the vine, with its clustering grapes go up, 
Up, to the crest of the tallest trees, 
And there, with the humming-birds and bees, 
On a seat of turf, embroidered fair, 
With the violet blue and the columbine rare 
It was sweet to sit, till the sun threw clown 
At the gate of the west, his golden crown : 
Sweetly wild, sweetly wild, 
Were the scenes that chann'd me, when a child. 



44 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



THE EXILE'S CAVE. 

Mr country ! when I trod the far-fam'd shores, 
Along whose sands the Adrian billow roars ; 
When turn'd from Alpine crags my ling'ring view, 
And cast tow'rds vanish'd Rome a last adieu ; 
When down I look'd from many a vine-clad steep, 
Where Rhine's swift tides of rock and ruin sweep ; 
When glad I saw, in triumph's stately rest, 
An hundred fleets on Thames' reposing breast ; 
Still from each scene mine eye was westward turn'd, 
Still at thy name the filial feeling burn'd ; 
And still the stranger join'd that honor'd name 
With some high word of freedom, praise and fame. 
Then long'd thy son, his little all to lend, 
Thy glorious trust to keep, adorn, defend ; 
Then to his lips the warm thanksgiving sprung, 
That on thy lot his prizeless birthright hung ; 
Then kings and kingdoms, mount and ocean, fled, 
And thy green forests echoed to his tread. 
'Tvvas nature's call, 'twas duty's sacred vow : 
Fain would the wand'rer's hand fulfil it now ! 
Far as thy cities lift the sands of men, 
Far as thou look'st o'er prairie, wood and glen, 
Far as thy waters roll to either sea, 
Thou should'st be stainless, as thou would'st be free : 
Who shall not seize the moments as they fly, 
When on their wings immortal blessings lie ! 



the exile's cave. 45 

Dearest art thou : yet dear is many a land ; 
I grasp'd in all a welcome's joyous hand : 
Oft was the meeting brief, yet sweet the stay ; 
Unknown I came, in tears I turn'daway : 
I know not now if yet they linger here, 
I shall not greet them till the dead appear ; 
But they have taught the slumb'ring fire to wake, 
Dear is their country for their mem'ry's sake. 
So one bright chain all living hearts may bind ; 
So man was made, was sav'd, to love mankind : 
So, through each realm the mystic church is spread, 
Joining the living with th' undying dead, 
Joining the pure below, the bless'd above, 
All in His sov'reign name, whose name is love. 

D. E. G. 



46 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

SOCRATES. 

BY B. F. WATSON. 

There is no character of all antiquity upon which 
my mind delights to dwell with such eagerness, as 
that of the philosopher Socrates. And this, per- 
haps, is still more increased by the fact, that the 
more I allow my imagination the effort to picture 
for itself the man as he was, the greater I find the 
difficulty of forming a distinct idea of him. And 
after all, it is more of an idea, than any thing real 
which used to exist in the form of humanity, that 
takes possession of my mind. It is not so with 
Homer : 

" The blind old bard of Scio's rocky isle," 

is distinctly pictured before me, as he sat at the 
feasts of the great, reciting his immortal strains, or 
amid the populace of the cities, filling their souls 
with patriotism — to them the highest virtue — and 
again at the crowded contests exulting in all the 
majesty of his superior intellect. Notwithstanding 
the doubt which has been raised as to the very iden- 
tity of his existence, and the folios of criticism and 
the folios of actual denial which have been written, 
I can discern amidst them all, the very existing, nay 
the very si,nging Homer. And this is why I am 
soon satisfied with feasting my thoughts of the old 
Bard, and turn with pleasure to the feast he has left 



SOCRATES. 47 

the minrl — the immortal Iliad. But it is not so with 
Socrates. He is a phantom which haunts the mind, 
but which eludes every effort to grasp it. Yet he is 
the idol of my thoughts. Long before I had learn- 
ed from the classic page his sayings and doings — 
even while yet a child — I had read the passionate 
exclamation of the old blind preacher, which had 
raised in my youthful mind an idea of the great. I 
thought that he must have been something more 
than human, of whom it could be said by such an 
one as Rosseau, " Socrates died like a Philosopher, 
but Josus Christ died like a God." What a man 
must he have been, who could have been thus men- 
tioned, with one whom we acknowledge to be God 
in man ! And what a death must a Philosopher 
die! Such was my first thought of Socrates. And 
when it is remembered under what circumstances 
these words of Rosseau were repeated, no wonder 
that that man took such hold upon the thoughts of 
the child. It was with all the eloquence and pa- 
thos of which the gifted Wirt was capable, that he 
tells the thrilling story. In a simple country church, 
before a rustic audience, an old and blind but ven- 
erable man appeared as the preacher of the day. 
"Never before," says the narrator, " did I listen to 
such a sermon as that old, blind preacher gave." 
By his thrilling eloquence he had insensibly raised 
the feelings of his hearers to the highest state to 
which they might be wrought— melted them to tears 
— appeared himself to be lost in the very ecstacies 
of that exciting moment, and it seemed to be im- 
possible for human power to bring them down from 
the height to which he had carried them, without 



48 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

destroying the effect ; when suddenly he hurst forth 
in the exclamation, " Socrates died like a Philoso- 
pher, but Jesus Christ died like a God' 1 ' 1 — and imme- 
diately burst into a flood of tears ! The effect was 
complete.* 

No wonder I say, my idea of Socrates was great, 
when I first learned of him under such circumstan- 
ces. But my admiration for him was then mixed 
with profound ignorance of his character. I grew 
up, and the ignorance was dispelled, that admira- 
tion increased, and my wonder was, that such a 
man lived and died a heathen. But away with such 
an idea. He was not a Christian, but he was no 
more a heathen. He was not a Christian, because 
there was no Christianity : he was not a heathen 
because heathenism was idolatry. He stood alone 
in the world, a light amid impenetrable gloom — a 
morning star, the faint precursor of the light and 
glory of day ! How pure his morality, for one 
upon whom the rays of the star which rose in Beth- 
lehem had never fallen ! How sublime his pre- 
cepts, for one who had never sat at the feet of 
Jesus, and learned of him ! How bright he must 
have shone in the darkness — the moral darkness — 
with which Athens was then enveloped ! How 
exalted must he have been, among those who mis- 
took — but through a wilful ignorance— his one God 
for a strange and unknown being — his obedience to 
the dictates of his conscience, for a communion 
with false spirits — and his gentle teaching of the 
Athenian youth, for a corruption of their morals ! 

* Wirt's British Spy. 



SOCRATES. 49 

Well does Xenophen indignantly exclaim, " how 
could he, being such an one as he was, do all this." 
By the consent of all mankind, it seems to have 
been granted to Socrates to wear that palm, more 
enduring and more glorious than ever Caesar won 
amid his seas of blood or fields of slain, or Homer, 
with his title of Father of Song, or all the simply 
great who ever lived, either to devastate the world 
with their destructive aim, or to charm it with their 
song, or to enlighten it with their philosophy. To 
Socrates alone is granted the palm of being the best 
who ever lived, the best who could live, without 
light from on high. His, is a name before the 
world, as identified with every thing which is good 
and great— a name, emblazoned like a sun, with 
such beams of light, that we, with all our advanta 
ges for moral and intellectual superiority, shrink 
back from it with dazzled eyes. 



50 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



SCENE FROM A MANUSCRIPT DRAMA. 

BY W. A. C. HOSMER. 

[A OLADK IN THE FOREST.] 

Flying Arrow. 

Your sire is famed for promptness ; what precludes 
His presence from the council ? 

Neuga. 

I know not : 
He is much changed of late, and often pays 
Sad visits to my sister's gory couch ; 
And breathes his incoherent words of wail 
To rocks, unsympathizing trees, and lifts 
His shrivel'd hands in gnashing madness up 
Invoking retribution from the clouds. 
On his bald brow hangs gloom, and in the sports, 
And loud, light laughter of the festal throng 
He finds no joy. While others join the dance, 
And move to music round the monarch oak, 
He seeks some lone, sad haunt, and fires his brain 
With plans of vengeance, or inures his frame 
To suffering and hardship on the hills : 
Aye ! scorning other weapon than his knife, 
He dares the panther in his lair of rock, 
Or wrestles with the rough bear in his den, 
And bares his bosom to the pelting storm 



SCENE FROM A MANUSCRIPT DRAMA. 51 

When the dumb beast seeks covert, and beholds 
The lightning leap through Heaven, and hears the 

while 
Deep, quailing thunder ; for his mood accords 
With Nature in her frantic hour of wrath. 

[Enter Swamp Fox.] 

Where is the Sachem ? 

Swamp Fox. 

In the wood shot down ; 
While walking by my side, the cruel shaft, 
Dyed to the feather, quivered in his back 
Before I dreamed of danger ; and he fell, 
Essaying vainly to articulate. 
Like panther, in pursuit of deer, I strove 
To overtake the slayer, fell Magua! 
But my old limbs, stiff with the weight of years, 
The foe outmatched in speed. 

Neuga. 

Woes fall so thick, 
And heavy on my soul, this last great blow 
Moves not a muscle : so used am I to wrong 
That all the springs of tenderness are dried. 
My sister murder'd— wife in bondage dire— 
My name almost extinct— my country made 
A theatre of butchery and blood, 
And finally to crown the ills of Fate 
My royal father killed outright ; his locks 
Once white as wintry snow by traitor changed 
To redness deep and foul. How long shall we 



52 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Waste time in words, loud groans and vain regrets, 
While Ruin unopposed pursues his course ? 
In the mad conflict quick and glorious death 
Would suit me better than a life like this. 
I hear the raven croaking in the wood, 
Eager to steep his claws and carrion beak 
In the yet reeking slain — an hour ago 
Your Sachem and the Ruler of this realm. 

Swamp Fox. 

The white-browed hell hounds from beyond the sea, 
And the fell traitor, flushed with victory 
Keep careless watch, and deem the Senecas, 
Weak, few and panic-struck, no more 
Will dare oppose their power. 

Ncuga. 
To-night, to-night I swear 
My tomahawk shall glitter in their camp — 
My bow shall twang the fatal note of death, 
And if I fall, my ghost shall join the dead 
In the bright West where Ou-wee-nee-you* smiles 
On Valor passing through his gates of gold. 

Flying Arrow. 
We follow where you venture, and the light 
Of morrow's morn shall view our corpses cold ; 
Or fierce Invasion crushed — our country free. 

* The Great Spirit in Seneca dialect. 



iona— fingal's cave. 53 



IONA— FINGAL'S CAVE— GIANT'S CAUSE- 
WAY. 

BY A TRAVELLER. 

We were landed in a small boat in a sheltered 
cove at the eastern point of the island. We clam- 
bered up over the broken pillars to its surface, 
which is uneven and unrelieved by a single human 
habitation. A few cattle were grazing here and 
there, and immense numbers of sea-gulls were 
wheeling and screaming round the cliffs. But 
though solitude was there, silence was not. The 
dashing of the waves along the irregular shore — 
their deep reverberations along the numerous caves 
which pierce its sides, made the air all around 
tremulous with a music in perfect harmony with 
the scene. After walking a half mile, we effected 
a descent down the southern face of the island near 
Olaneshell Cave — which would have detained our 
steps any where, but in the neighborhood of Fin- 
gal's Cave or Hall, as it is indiscriminately called. 
We hurried along the portion of the island which is 
lined with a range of columns, a little inclining out- 
wards in the middle, as if bending beneath the su- 
perincumbent mass of rocks. This too would have 
repaid a visit to the island, for more than any other 
portion of Staffa, it gives the impression of human 
architecture on a magnificent scale. The basaltic 



54 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

columns rest nearly vertical upon a rude mass of 
trap, turf, and support a heavy entablature of trap, 
without any defined shape except towards the sur- 
face, where it exhibits the appearance of a tessala- 
ted pavement. From the foot of this range, far out 
into the ocean, you see nothing but myriads of bro- 
ken columns, here piled together as if in readiness 
to construct other caverns, and there lying in every 
fantastic position. 

But this was noticed more particular on my re- 
turn, for I paused not, till I stood on the Causeway, 
which leads into Fingal's Hall on the eastern side — 
and here opened a view into the twilight depths of 
that vast temple, which will never pass from my 
memory. No edifice raised by human hands — no 
sculptured dome —no fretted vault, " where peal- 
ing anthems swelled the notes of praise"— no long 
drawn aisles, not even at night, 

When the pillared arches were over my head, 
And beneath my feet were the bones of the dead — 

ever impressed me with such deep solemnity. 

The entrance of the Hall is 63 feet from the sur- 
face of the water at the average tide, and 40 feet in 
breadth, and is in the form of a gothic arch, or 
rather of the contracted gothic arch, reminding me 
forcibly of the natural bridges of Virginia. Its ex- 
treme depth, from Dr. MacCulloch's measurement, 
is 227 feet. The walls are not parallel to each oth- 
er, nor have the columns which compose it that 
geometrical precision I was led to expect from en- 
graved representations. This, instead of impairing 



iona— fingal's cave. 55 

the grandeur of its effect, imparts to it a grace be- 
yond the reach of art. The columns are not of 
uniform size and height, but vary from 2 to 4 feet 
in diameter, and from 20 to 44 feet in length, and 
are generally 5 or 6 sided. Their color is a dark 
grayish black. The form of the vault does not con- 
tinue the same as at the entrance, but is in some 
places almost flat— in others faultless in its archi- 
tectural regularity — and near the centre, where it is 
formed of the ends of broken pillars, it bends down- 
wards a little. Carbonate of lime has filtered 
through the interstices of the pillars at the centre 
and near the extremity of the vault, forming an 
exquisite chasing round their edges. The ocean 
rolls its waves to the very extreme of the cavern, 
and of course forms its floor. Its color is an eme- 
rald green, and its reflected tints, mingling with the 
chequered light and shade, which the irregular 
outline of the walls necessarily produces, add much 
to the harmonious effect of the cavern. Each wave, 
as it ranged in rapid succession by the sides and 
dashed against the extremity of the vault, produced 
an organ-like tone, which, echoing along the irregu- 
lar roof, fills the whole cavern with a wild and ap- 
propriate music. 

The pillared rocks their silent voices raise— 
The deep sea murmurs her Creator's praise. 

The cave can be penetrated with perfect safety 
to the extremity, over the broken pillars, which 
forms a rude corridor or stairway. The view from 
that point should not be lost from any false appro- 



56 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

hension of danger. There is none. The entrance 
fronts towards Iona, and the ruins of its cathedral 
are distinctly visible in the distance— a type of the 
perishableness of man's proudest work, when com- 
pared with the stabilily of a structure like this. 
The best point of view, however, is either about 
half way up the eastern side, or else just out of the 
cavern, on the causeway which extends down into 
the sea. At these two points the mass of light is 
broken by the projecting columns — the reflected 
tints of the ocean — the twilight of the vault — the 
organ-like tone and echo of the breaking surge — 
are I think more harmoniously blended. However, 
this will all depend on the hour, the tide, and the 
weather. There is no one point of observation, if 
the visiter can have but one, which will not add to 
the treasure of his imagination and memory forever. 

Our party did not explore the other caverns of 
the island. They are all inferior in dimensions and 
interest to Fingal's. I should mention that the high- 
est point on the face of the island is 112 feet. 

On our way back to Oban, my mind was busy 
with the wild speculations which the wonders of 
Staffa are so well calculated to lead to. I was 
questioning the past of its origin— of the progress 
of this structure, raised by agencies which mock 
the imbecility of human hands— of its long unre- 
corded history, for it is but within fifty years that 
its existence was known. What convulsive throes 
must have shook the ocean and the land — what red 
fires must have glared on the heavens, when the 
earthquake and volcano reared these innumerable 
pillars with the whole entablature of the island 



IONA — fingal's cave. 57 

upon them ! And was there a time, when a mag- 
nificent range of columns, a giant causeway in- 
deed, stretched from Scotland to Ireland, which the 
strong arm of the ocean has broken down, leaving 
only a fragment here and there to tell of its former 
grandeur ! We have the authority of Poetry on 
this point, and Science may doubt, it cannot dis- 
prove the fact. 



THE MOSS-ROSE. 



LINES 



BY REV. R. TURNBUIX. 



Sweet is Summer's vivid ray, 
Dawning on the limpid wave, 

Sweet is music's magic lay, 
In some wild Eolian cave. 

Sweet on infant's lip the smile 

As it rests in balmy sleep, 
O'er its little couch the while, 

The mother hangs with pleasure deep. 

Sweet the moonbeam on the wave, 
Gilding all its heaving breast, 

As it shows the watery grave, 
Where the hero sunk to rest. 

Sweet is memory's mystic spell, 
Conjuring up our youthful joys ; 

Hope's bland whisper ! who can tell ' 
The power of her enchanting voice ? 

Sweeter far is Mercy's ray 
Beaming on a world of woe, 

(fighting up a glorious day 
'Mid the gloom of life below. 

Sweeter too, the balmy rest 
Of the grave's unbroken sleep, 

While the soul on Jesus' breast 
Far away forgets to weep. 



LINES. 

Sweeter still the holy lay 
Sung by happy saints on high, 

'Mid the beams of endless day, 
'Mid the glories of the sky ! 



59 



60 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 

BY J. DIXON. 

" A tradition prevailed among the natives of Puerto 
Rico, that in the Island of Bimini, one of the Lucayos, 
there was a fountain of such wonderful virtue, as to 
renew the youth, and recall the vigor, of every one 
who bathed in its salutary waters. In hopes of find- 
ing this grand restorative, Ponce de Leon and his fol- 
lowers, ranged through the islands, searching with 
fruitless solicitude and labor, for this wonderful foun- 
tain." Robertson's History of America. 

O ! where is that fountain of Youth ! 

To the far, green land, where its waters flow, 
Ere our last hopes fade in the light of truth, 

With a fainting heart we go : 
We have toiled for the mines of yellow gold 
Till our eyes are dim and our blood is cold. — 
We have gained the glittering prize we sought, 
But our wealth, at the price of life, is bought ; — 
The light of our youth, like a dream, is past, 
And the shadow of deatli is over us cast; 
In our hearts the magic of hope has died, 
And what that can cheer us, is left beside 1 
The gold we have heaped can ne'er restore 
The wealth of the soul — that richer ore — 
And the light of youth, that has ceased to bum, 
To our cheerless age, may not return. 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 61 

O ! where is that fountain of Youth ! 

When our spirits were flushed by the glow of 
health, 
From our childhood's home, we were urged away, 

By the sordid lust of wealth. 
We came from the castled hills of Spain, 

From tented field and lady's bower, 
In a slender bark o'er the heaving main, 

To the land of sun and shower : — 
We came— and the sparkling rivers roll'd, 
In all their course, o'er a bed of gold, 
And the earth gave up a richer spoil, 
Than the wealth of kings, to our ceaseless toil, 
But O ! for a single year, to recall 
The flush of youth, we would give it all. 



They left their treasures of gold, and sought 

For that fountain of life, whose waters gave 
The freshness of youth, to him who brought 

His trembling limbs to its healing wave. 
They roamed o'er mountain and desert plain, 

For many a weary day, in vain, 
Wherever a foaming stream might, rush 

O'er rock, or green hill-side, 
Or hidden fountain gently gush, 

Or noiseless river glide. 
Twas vain ! for the blessed fount of life 

Whose waters to men are given, 
Flows not in this world of sin and strife, 

But only is found in Heaven : 



62 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

And thus in the brightness of youth we seek 

The thronging woes of later years, 
Till care has blanched the blooming cheek, 

And dimmed the eye with tears : 
We dream not that the cloudless sun 

That made our youthful pathway bright, 
When hope's most brilliant prize is won, 

Will lose its morning light. 
We dream not that the power and wealth 

For which we give our life, 
Will not repay the wasted health. 
The bitterness — the strife — 
The agony, with which we earn 
The splendors that the soul must spurn, 
In that inevitable day, 
When glory's hues shall fade away 
And Gold's omnipotence shall be 
A torturing, maddening mockery. 

When the ebbing pulse and the gasping breath 
Are weak and faint in the hour of death, 
O ! then could a fountain of Youth 
In the desert of life, break forth, 
Which could bring us back to that blessed hour, 
When the gilded visions of hope had power 
To cheer the gloom of this dreary earth, 
How would we gladly — gladly fling 

Our wealth away, in that hour of pain, 
For a sight of that celestial spring, 
Whose waters might make us young again ! 



THE YOUNG MOTHER. 63 



THE YOUNG MOTHER. 



Willis. 



" Blessed we sometimes are ! and I am now 
Happy in quiet feelings." 

Mark yonder scene ! a cherub boy 
With lisping shout and frolic glee, 

Which well betoken childhood's joy — 
Is climbing to his mother's knee. 

And blended on that mother's face 
Are all the charms which beauty lends ; 

And her's the form of seraph grace, 
Which o'er the sculptor's slumber bends, 

And smiles are o'er her beauty stealing, 
Irradiate with the light of thought, 

Unuttered tones, yet well revealing 
The love with which her heart is fraught. 

The roguish boy ! his sportive hands 
Have torn the roses from her hair, 

And loosed her tresses from their bands 
Upon a bosom snowy fair ! 

And she has only pressed a kiss 
Of burning fervor on his brow ! 

As if she felt too much of bliss 
To give one word of chiding now ! 



61 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Oh, if thine heart he weighed with sadness, 
Which makes the spirit pine to go, 

Then gaze upon this scene of gladness, 
And learn, that there is bliss below ! 
June, 1834. B. 



TO CATHARINE. 65 



TO CATHARINE. 

BY REV. J. D. TYLER. 

We laid thee in the softest spot, 

That sorrowing love could choose, 
Where gently blows the passing breeze, 

Where fall the early dews, 
Where brightest flowers of early spring, 

In fragrant beauty bloom, 
And droop their soft sweet heads, as if 

In sorrow o'er thy tomb ! 
Yet dreary is the softest grave 

Affection ever made — 
And earthly flowers of brightest hue, 

Will ever soonest fade. 

But thou art gone where calmly blow 

The pure sweet airs of heaven, — 
Where round thy bright celestial brow 

Immortal wreaths are woven — 
For faith in that one name alone 

That erring man can save, 
Or give the prisoned soul release 

And triumph o'er the grave, 
lias clothed thy new-born soul in robes 

Of righteousness and love, 
And, like the Prophet's chariot-flame, 

Has wafted thee above. 
5 



66 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

How sweet the blessed tones that steal 

From o'er thy early grave ! 
How glad the ransomed voices breathe 

To Him who died to save ! 
We will not weep that thou art dead, 

Thou loved ami lovely one ! 
We will not sorrow o'er the voice 

That called thee to thy home ! 
We will not grieve that thou hast flown 

From ills that met thee here, 
To Him who healeth every pain, 

And wipeth every tear ! 



G7 



SONNETS. 
BY J . nxoN. 

I. 

MOONLIGHT IN JUNE. 

Thou hast a gentle ministry, O ! Moon ! 

Hiding in solemn silence through the sky, 

And gazing from thy trackless path on high 
Upon the beauty of the leafy June : 
On such a lovely night, I ween, as this, 
Endymion felt thy pale lips' dewy kiss, 
For far around on every plain and hill, 

In the soft gleaming of the silver ray, 
Flower, tree and forest, breathless now and still, 

Rest from the burning brightness of the day ; 
Silence is over all. Yon murmuring rill 

Alone leaps gladly on its tireless way : 
In thy soft rays how beautiful is night. 
Like man's cloud covered path, by Woman's love 
made bright ! 

II, 

TO A ROBIN. 

Sweet bird ! that hidden by the dark green leaves, 

Did'st pour thy pleasant song at break of day, 
Making glad music 'round my flower wreathed 
eaves, 



68 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Why has thy gentle warbling died away ? 
Come not the zephyrs from the sweet south-west, 
As freshly to thy leaf-embosomed nest 7 
Less fragrant are the flowers of Summer's prime, 
Or pinest thou for thy far-off southern clime 1 
Or is it that thy noisy young have flown, 

Leaving their green home in the o'er shadowing 
tree, 
That thus thou mournest, desolate and lone, 

Where once thy song burst forth so loud and free? 
Alas ! that summer's perfumed airs should bring 
Sorrow to one like thee, so light of heart and wing ! 

HI. 

A RAMBLE IN THE WOODS. 

The soft, sweet music of the forest birds, 
The fragrance of wild flowers, the solemn hush 

Of the dark woods, more eloquent than words, 
The murmuring sound of summer streams, that 
rush 

O'er flowers and bended grass, our souls beguile, 

And tempt our wandering feet for many a mile. 

Through the green leaves we look to yon deep sky- 
Blue as the Ocean — stretching far around, 
And feel our souls — to earth no longer bound — 

Spreading their eagle wings to soar on high. 

O ! in this perfect stillness, how the heart 

Pants for that power, that is its better part ; 

And 'mid the teachings of these trees and flowers 

Sighs o'er the memory of its wasted hours ! 



SONNETS 69 

IV. 

SUNSET AFTER A STORM. 

Lo ! where the mountains mingle with the sky, 
A breaking light in all the glowing west ! 

And slowly now its lustre spreads on high, 
As the veil'd sun sinks calmly to his rest : 

The broken clouds are bathed in golden light, 
That mingles sweetly with the sky's deep blue, 

And as the twilight fades — from Heaven's far height 
The first bright star of eve is shining through: 

The low wind's voice falls gently on the ear, 
And with it, to the lone and weary heart, 
Comes a deep joy, that could it ne'er depart, 

Might make us sigh to dwell forever here : 

It may not be ! E'en from such glorious skies, 

O I who can tell how sad a morn may rise ! 



MONTE VIDEO. 

The wind blows cool around the mountain's brow, 
And its shades there breathes a purer air ; 
Thrill'd by the glorious scene, our souls may share 

A portion of its majesty. If thou 

Would'st know the thoughts that sleep within 
thee, — go 

To yonder mount ;— there with the world below, 

And the blue sky above thee, shall thy soul 
Range forth, and wild, strange visions crowd 
Upon thy brain, till the heart beats aloud, 

And the far soaring spirit mocks control. 



70 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Gazing in rapture there— think if this height 
Can stir thy senses with such deep delight, 
What joy is theirs, who gaze with angel eyes 
From Heaven's far heights, that gleam beyond the 
skies ! 

VI. 

WILD FLOWERS. 

Where in the wanton air the dark woods wave, 
In every verdant plain — by rock and stream — 
Where the swift waters in the sunshine gleam, 

Or, sleeping in the shade, their green banks lave, 

Bright flowers are blooming, and the zephyr's wing 
Is laden with their fragrance. Come away 

From the throng'd city's busy hum, and fling 
The fetter from thy soul for one brief day. 

The winds from these wild flowers to thee shall bear 
Sweet odors, and their soft and delicate hues, 
Bathed in a nightly shower of summer dews, 

Shall fill thee with delight, and wandering there 

A loftier hope — a nobler, prouder aim 

Amid these sinless flowers, thy life shall claim. 

VII. 

AUTUMN. 

The skies of Autumn wear a deeper blue, 
The moon and stars pour down a purer light ; 
And lo ! the magic frost, in one brief night, 

Hath robed the forest in a brighter hue. 
Go where the mellow sunshine softly plays, 



SONNETS. 71 

And there, by plain or hill-side, thou shalt hear 
Sounds sweeter far than charmed thy listening ear, 

When songs of birds beguiled the summer days : 
—Sweet sounds, but sad— the low and murmuring 
wail 

Of Autumn winds that sigh among the trees, 
Telling, of Death, a wild and mournful tale, 

And forcing solemn Thought on minds at ease. 
Oh ! if our hearts may thus be wiser made, 
'T were well that leaves should fall and flowers 
should fade. 

VIII. 

BIRCH WOOD BOWER. 

On the green summit of a gentle hill, 

O'er hung with vines, there stands a verdant 
bower — 

A lovely spot at the sweet sunset hour, 
When skies are clear and Autumn winds are still. 

The golden sun, the fleeting clouds, the sky, 
From this fair bower, as bright and glorious seem 
As when we see, in some bewildering dream, 

The sky, the clouds, the sun of Italy. 
Where is that heaven of darker, purer blue ? — 

Where is that happier clime, whose trees and 
flowers 
May boast a deeper green— a gayer hue, 

Than those we see in this sweet land of ours? 
Gazing from such a spot — at such a time, 
Well may our hearts believe earth has no fairer 
clime ! 



72 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

IX. 

THE HARVEST MOON. 

Milt* were her beams, and light her graceful horn, 

When first her slender crescent hung on high ; 
Now, like the breaking of another morn, 

She bathes in silver light the eastern sky. 
They say with hastening step, at set of sun, 

She comes, the Autumn harvest home to light; 
And when our woods, and hills, and streams have 
won 

Her beaming eye, she lingers o'er the sight. 
How doth her beauty sink upon the heart !— 

Waking the thoughts we cannot breathe in words, 
O'er which our saddened spirits brood apart, 

And sigh to break their chains, and soar like birds. 
Strange, that the beauty of her gentle beams 
Should make us sad, as when we wake from pleas- 
ant dreams ! 

X. 

A SUMMER DAY IN AUTUMN. 

A warm, bright, sunny day, like one of those 
That thrill'd our hearts when earth was gay with 

flow'rs, 
And leaves were fresh in all the forest bowers ! 

The fragrant Summer lingers, ere she goes 
From her green haunts beside the cooling brook, 
With a sad beauty, like the last fond look 



SONNETS. 73 

Of one we love. The melancholy sky, 

The fading leaves, the withering grass, the dim 
And hazy light, have, to the gazer's eye, 

A mournful charm ; and hark ! the funeral hymn 
Of the last summer-day is on the breeze, 
Mocking the brightness of the tinted trees ; 
And gently o'er the earth, with dying swell, 
The lingering zephyr sighs its last farewell ! 

XI. 

THE BIRDS OF SUMMER. 

From the deep stillness of the Autumn woods, 
From rustling streams half choked with fallen 

leaves, 
From leafless bowers, where gentle Summer 
weaves 
Her vines and flowers no more, and sadness broods 
O'er all around, — on sweeping wings they fly 
To fairer climes beneath a milder sky : 
Hush'd are the notes that filled, at break of day, 
The forest shades, since these sweet birds have 

flown, 
And now, instead, a sad and fitful tone, 
Comes on the wintry breeze, and dies away. 
Thus doth the music of our youth depart, 
And comes no more to cheer the broken heart ! 
But Spring, with fragrant breath shall come again, 
And birds, amid its flowers, shall pour a sweeter 
strain. 



74 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

XII. 
THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN. 

The lingering summer wind has passed away, 
The flowers that bloom beneath the Autumn skies, 
With their bright hues no longer greet our eyes, 

Tempting our feet o'er hill and plain to stray. 

AVhere in deep woods, we sought the cooling breeze, 
Dark were the shades, when all around was bright, 

Now through the branches of the leafless trees, 
The noonday sun pours iu a flood of light. 

The sounds and sights of Summer come no more, 
To charm our thoughts away, and now we turn 
Inward the soul upon itself, and learn 

Of our own hearts, the dark and bidden lore, 

And cease to mourn that Autumn's wither'd flowers 

Are emblems of this fading life of ours ! 

XIII. 

MIDNIGHT. 

Voiceless as the dim visions of a dream, 
Steals the frost-spirit through the wintry air, — 

From leafless forest and from ice-bound stream, 
No more the winds their gentle music bear. 

The white clouds float in yonder cold blue sky, 
Pure as the snow, that o'er the frozen plain 
Glitters beneath the Moon, and bears no stain 

Upon its vestal cheek !— Oh ! if thine eye 
Looks with delight, upon a nobler scene, 
Than Autumn's tinted woods, or Summer's green, 



SONNETS. 75 

Come forth at this still, solemn, midnight hour, 
And read a lesson of eternal power, 

And bow thy soul to Him whose tireless hand 
Hung the proud arch on high, beneath whose light 
we stand ! 

XIV. 

A WINTER ROBIN. 

Through Autumn's sunny days, one lonely bird 

Lingered, in sadness, by its summer nest, 
And now the wintry blasts, at midnight heard, 

Ruffle the plumes that shield its downy breast. 
Perhaps to that lone tree, its gentle mate 

Fled from the fowler's aim, — to droop and die, 
And fondly there the faithful bird doth wait, 

Breasting the storms that through the valley fly. 
Our doors it seeks, with warble faint and low, 

And oft its foot-prints you may see at morn, 
Press'd deeply in the light and yielding snow, 

Where some kind hand its simple food hath borne ; 
And yet it trusts not man: — its trembling form 
A mightier hand shall guard from wind and storm. 

XV. 

THE DEPARTED YEAR. 

Midnight ! The Year is fled. Turn back thine eye 
Along thy path of life, and mark the way, 

O'er which thy soul, with many a tear and sigh, 
Hath reach'd the dying Year's departing day ; — 



76 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Hopes blighted— love estranged, and friends grown 
cold, 

The gorgeous dreams of youth in darkness lost— 
These are the wrecks our sadden'd eyes behold 

On life's dark sea, all wild and tempest-toss'd ; 
Or if thy way were deck'd with tree and flower, 

And calm blue skies were brightly o'er thee spread, 
'Twere well that solemn thought, at this lone hour, 

Should whisper — know thy happiest year is fled ! 
Hark ! on the breeze the lingering echoes swell : 
Thy voice is hush'd ! thou dying year— farewell ! 

XVI. 



THE NEW YEAR. 

Witii eyes that beam with joy, and radiant smiles, 

We grr et the coining of the new-born Year : 
Our spirits still — forgetful of its wiles, 

Undying Hope with magic light doth cheer. 
What dreams are ours ! The fragrant breath of 
spring, 

The flowers of summer, and the autumn skies, 
Before this opening year be past, shall bring 

New bliss and beauty to our hearts and eyes ; 
Oh ! tell us not, with sorrow's sickening blight 

The phantom, Hope — shall mock our souls again, 
Say not that trusting in its litful light, 

We dream of joy, and wake to bitter pain ; 
But render Jhanks to Heav'n, that flowers conceal 
In all our way, the thorns that time may yet reveal. 



77 



XVII. 

MORNING. 

How doth the spirit turn, on such a morn, 
From the vain turmoil and the bitter strife, 
In which we waste the golden hours of life, 

To gentler themes untinged by hate or scorn, — 

To him whose heart by hope is not forsaken, 
Sweetly and gladly comes the breath of spring; 

And buried thoughts, that with its odors waken, 
Come like forgotten dreams on memory's wing ; 

And e'en to saddest hearts, as on the ear 
Melts the rich music of the first bird's song, 

Departed hopes, too bright to linger here, 
Return, " an undistinguishable throng." 

Alas that every dream our hearts may cherish, 

Is doomed, like Spring's first buds and flowers, to 
perish ! 



XVIII. 



SPRING, 



From the strong fetters of the wintry frost, 

The streams exulting leap along their way, 
And flowers whose gentle hues our eyes had lost, 

By the blue river open to the day : 
Life in its fairest forms is bursting forth 

O'er forest plain and mountain; — nor alone 
In the fresh beauties of the blooming earth, 

Is the strange magic of the spring time shown, 



78 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Wc feci it in our breasts, and bear within, 
A heart that leaps like the unfettered streams, 

And from the light that smiles around, we win, 
E'en in our darkest hours, some transient gleams, 

To cheer us on that way, so dark and lone, 

Along whose desert sands, some scattered flowers 
are strown. 

XIX. 

THE VOICE OF SPRING. 

From budding flowers, and trees that on the air 

Shed odors sweeter than Elysian gales, 
There comes a voice, forbidding to despair, 

Vyhen every hope that cheered our spirit fails. 
If in thy madness thou hast dreamed of bliss, 

And wept to see the blessed hope depart, 
Go forth alone at such an hour as this, 

And let these Zephyrs soothe thy wounded heart : 
To the dim eye shall come a beaming light, 

To the pale cheek a fresh and radiant bloom, 
And strength be thine in sorrow's deepest night, 

To bear, with manly soul, the darkest doom ; 
For in these opening buds we see the power, 
That to the winter of the heart sends many a sunny 
hour. 

XX. 

THE CITY AND THE COUNTRY. 

The voice of singing birds— the fragrant kiss 
Of the flower scented breezes — sun and sky, 

Wild flowers that blossom in the wilderness, 
And wither there unseen by human eye — 



SONNETS. 79 

How do our fettered spirits sigh for these, 

Prison'd within a city's naked walls, 
Where to the brow may come no forest breeze, 

And on the ear no forest music falls- 
Turn wheresoe'cr we may, our eyes behold 

The wan, pale checks of sad and care worn men, 
No leaf is green — no blooming flowers unfold, 

Like those whose hues are bright in vale and glen ; 
Yet may one sight glad dreams of these recall — 
The blue and blessed sky that bendeth over all. 

XXI. 

MAY. 

Month of my heart ! — in beauty and in bloom, 

With blossoming trees, mild sunny skies, and soft 
Sweet southern breezes laden with perfume, 
Thy happy hours steal on, and wandering oft 
With a full heart that sighs in vain to fling 
Like a chained bird, the fetter from its wing, 
Beside thy rushing streams, I seem to tread 
A purer soil than Tempe's flowery vales, 
A sky more blue bends brightly o'er my head, 
More fresh thy dewy flowers — more soft thy gales, 
— More sweet the music floating on thy air, 
The purple flush of morn and eve, more fair, 
Than when we droop beneath a summer sun, 
And pant for these sweet streams that through thy 
valleys run. 



pO THE MOSS-ROSE- 

XXII. 
CONNECTICUT RIVER. 

Wandering 'mid flowery banks, or loud and hoarse, 

Foaming o'er rock and crag, all wild and free, 
From the deep woods that hide thy shaded source, 
To where thy waters mingle with the sea, 
Beautiful River ! like a dream of love 
Thy deep waves glide— blue as the sky above. 
Bright are the happy homes along thy shores, 

Shaded by drooping elms that kiss thy wave; 
And grassy banks that bloom with gay wild flowers, 
Thy calm and murmuring waters gently lave ; 
And warbling birds with music sweet as thine, 
Ping in the brandies of the o'er-hanging vine — 
A song wbosc notes are with ns evermore, 
Stealing our hearts away to wander by thy shore. 



stanzas" 81 



STANZAS. 

BY REV. J. D. TYLER. 
"lam a stranger in the earth."— Psalm cxix. 19. 

And thus it is — from spot to spot, 

Our weary footsteps go, 
By few beloved, by more forgot, 

And homeless here below. 

No spot so calm, no scene so sweet, 

That we may linger there— 
Our stay is brief, our pleasures fleet, 

For we are strangers here. 

The friends that aid our toilsome way, 
And cheer its deepening gloom, 

Too bright for earth, pass day by day, 
Before us to the tomb. 

While robbed of rest, condemned to rove, 

We tread life's weary path, 
We raise our longing eyes above, 

As "strangers in the eaith." 

By ills beset, by dangers prest, 

By fearful tempests driven, 
Our cheering hope is promised rest, 

A home prepared in heaven ! 
6 



82 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



BONNET. 

BY PARK BENJAMIN. 

Think not, oh gentle lady, that I grieve, 

That we should ever in this world have met ; 
For of the past Fate never can bereave — 

And Memory culls unladed roses yet 
In the sweet garden where Affection grew. 

Time never can restore our Eden hours, 
Nor the lost happiness of love renew ; 

For me a sword flames o'er those sunny bowers, 
And a stern. angel beckons me away : — 
Yet where, deserted and alone, I stray 
On the rough paths of life, afar from thee, 

Some fragrant airs come wafted from the skies, 
Some lovely glimpses of the land I see, 

Which to my trusting heart appeared a Paradise ! 
New York, October 30. 



POOL OF BETHESDA. 83 



POOL OF BETHESDA. 

The Savior saw the summer sun o'er Cana's heights 

decline, 
Where at the marriage feast lie turned the water 

into wine : 
And dark the shades of night came down upon the 

eastern sea, 
Which rolls its hlue and sounding waves in ancient 

Galilee. 

On to Jerusalem he came — nor paused the leagues 
to count — 

Through Bethany and green Bethpage, over the 
Olive Mount; 

And entering by the eastern gate his weary way he 
kept, 

To where Bethesda's healing pool beneath the sun- 
shine slept. 

Around its brink in sad array affliction's sons were 

laid, 
On whom were poured the heavy ills no human 

power could aid. 
There waited they, till o'er the wave an angel's 

wing should move : 
And he who first might wash therein its healing gift 

would prove. 



84 



THE MOSS-ROSE. 



There was the blind, whose life had been one train 
of darkened hours, 

Who never saw the cheering sun, or the fresh- 
springing dowers : 

Though voices sweet and bounding steps came round 
his pathway dim, 

No smile of friend, nor look of love, could give their 
light to him. 

There were the feeble and the maimed, the withered 

and the lame, 
Yet with a child-like trustfulness to the blue wave 

they came ; 
And Hope, whose star had almost set upon their 

clouded night, 
Now plumed her worn and weary wings, and waved 

her banner bright. 

Fair was the sabbath morn which smiled upon the 

gathering throng, 
But one was there with sandal soiled by journey 

faint and long, 
Who could not pass the suffering by, or pity's meed 

refuse, 
And round in idle wonder stood the unbelieving 

Jews. 

In the green summer of his days more helpless than 

a child, 
Was one to whom the Savior turned with voice and 

aspect mild. 
" Thou hast seen many saddened years of weariness 

and pain ; 
Wouldst thou rejoice in strength restored ? wouldst 

thou be whole again 7" 



POOL OF BETHESDA. 85 

" Would the wrecked mariner be glad a saving sail 

to see 1 
Or the bond-slave refuse the aid which bids him 

wander free 1 
But oh ! all vainly do I hope the healing wave to 

win, 
Ere I can move my helpless limbs another steps 

therein." 

" No longer shall a powerless frame join with a 

soaring soul 
To war against thy happiness— arise and be thou 

whole!" 
And many doubting eyes looked on the wondrous 

cure to see, 
As forth amid the crowd he walked with step and 

action free. 

Trust we in Him— unlike the Jews who would not 

faith be taught, 
E'en by the many miracles the blessed Jesus 

wrought — 
And come to him, with all our woes, who healing 

can impart, 
E'en for the deepest, worst disease — the sickness of 

the heart. 



86 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



THE LAND. 

BY G. M. SNOW. 
1. 

Oh give me to tread the steadfast earth, 
With a firm step bold and free ; 

For surely a rood of land is worth 
More than an acre of sea : 

The pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, 

It lieth too deep for me. 



The tiller I leave where the fierce winds blow, 

And I'll be a tiller of ground ; 
The only bark that I wish to know, 

Is the bark of my faithful hound : 
For the pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, 
It lieth too deep for me. 



A summer-day's cruise 'neath a squalless sky 

Is doubtless a right merry thing : 
As swiftly past cape and headland we fly 

On our sea gull's snowy wing : 
Yet the pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, 
It lieth too deep for me. 



8? 



Though to woo the sea may be full of bliss, 

Whilst her voice is sweet and low- 
Yet her wavelet lips seem meeting your kiss, 

When you reel to the might of a blow. 
Oh ! the pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, 
It lieth too deep for me. 

5. 
Then the night-cap'd waves grow wild in their 
glee, 
And the wooer grows queerish and pale, 
And the tribute he oflers his mistress, the sea, 

It seemeth of little avail : 
Oh ! the pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, 
It lieth too deep for me. 



The perfumed earth for a bride I take, 

And our nuptial couch of flowers 
Shall be placed by the brink of some reedy lake, 

Where Nature rules the Hours : 
For the pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, 
It lieth too deep for me. 



There the music tones of each brooklet and bird, 
And the wind through the old woods sweeping, 

In our leafy home shall alone be heard 
While our tryst we are fondly keeping : 

Oh ! the pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, 

It lieth tco deep for me. 



S THE MOSS-ROSE. 

8. 

Oh give me to tread the steadfast earth, 
With a firm step bold and free ; 

For surely a rood of land is worth 
More than an acre of sea : 

The pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, 

It lieth too deep for me. 



CLARENCE DE COUCY. 89 



CLARENCE DE COUCY. 

BY JOHN T. WAIT. 

"In winter's tedious night, sit by the fire 
With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales 
Of woful ages long ago betid ; 
And ere thou bid good-night, to quit their grief, 
Tell them the lamentable fall of me." 

Richard II. 

It was midnight, — and the brazen cressets, which 
swung from the lofty ceiling of the castle chamber, 
threw a glaring light upon its dark oaken wainscot 
and ancient massive furniture. Heavily set in 
richly gilded frames, and hanging on one side of 
the room, were the portraits of the former Marquis- 
es De Coucy, who in centuries past ha4 been the 
firmest pillars of the throne of France ; many of 
whom had swayed her councils, and many fought 
and fallen on her battle-fields. There was Black 
John, who had gained a name on the plains of Pales- 
tine ; and near to him were Hugh the Dauntless, 
and Robert the Bold, who had shed their blood — 
the former at Cressy and the latter at Agincourt. 
From the opposite side of the room, looked down 
the Marchionesses, whose strange, antique attire, 
told that many generations had passed away since 
they had graced with their presence the castle hall. 



90 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

The carved panel-work, the rich tapestry, the color- 
ed ceiling, and the dark floor, all spoke of the fash- 
ion of a former day — a fashion in which the Jast 
century had made no change. 

In one corner of the room stood a huge, bier-like 
bed. From its four posts rose a canopy so lofty 
that it touched the ceiling ; and from the sides of 
the canopy hung black curtains of silken velvet, 
elaborately embroidered, and so long that they swept 
the floor. On the bed lay a man whose furrowed 
brow, silver hair, and flowing beard, gave token 
that he had seen many years. His wasted and bend • 
ed form was wrapped in a robe of crimson silk. 
On his head he wore a crimson turban ; and around 
his brow was bound a black fillet, on which were 
oriental characters wrought in gold. His face was 
deadly pale ; and his quivering lip and faint breath- 
ing told that he was approaching the close of life. 
His features were singular, and had been beautiful ; 
and his eye, though sunken, still beamed with the 
vivacity and brilliancy of youth. At the foot of the 
bed wei;«gathered his favorite domestics ; while the 
hoary butler, bearing at his girdle the keys of office, 
knelt by the side, and proffered a goblet of wine to 
his dying lord. 

In the recess of one of the high and narrow win- 
dows, that looked out upon the park and the circu- 
lar road that wound through it to the castle, stood 
an attendant, apparently watching the approach of 
some expected friend. As the bell of the castle 
rung the hour of twelve, the Marquis spoke, — 
and his voice, though low and tremulous, had a 
musical softness in its tone : 



CLARENCE DE COUCY. 



91 



" What can delay Clarence ? My messenger 
could not have reached him, or he would be here. 
My word, like the prayer of the holy man, would 
have broken the spell of the sorceress. He would 
have left the Venetian maid, fair and fascinating as 
she is, even were he standing with her at the altar, 
had my summons reached him there. He is too 
true a De Coucy not to know the influence my 
dying blessing or dying ban would have upon his 
future happiness." 

"He is coming!" shouted the watcher; "-I see 
his form distinctly in the moonlight, and he is riding 
rapidly toward the castle." 

In a few moments, the drawbridge fell heavily 
across the moat— the bolts rattled in their wards — 
the castle gates creaked on their rusty hinges— and 
the hoofs of the rider's steed rang on the pavement 
of the court. In a moment more, a light, quick step, 
was heard crossing the hall and ascending the stairs. 
The door opened, and in rushed the expected Cla- 
rence. He was a tall, finely proportioned man, with 
the same black piercing eye that distinguished the 
elder De Coucy. Judging from his countenance, he 
might have seen five-and- twenty summers. Throw- 
ing from him his heavy riding cloak and plumed 
cap, he hastened to the embrace of his father, and 
inquired in tones of the fondest affection of his 
welfare. 

The Marquis gave a signal to his attendants, who 
withdrew, and the father and son were alone. Slow- 
ly the dying man raised himself in his bed, and then 
gazed long and steadfastly upon the face of his son 
before he spoke : 



92 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

" Yes, thou hast the faultless form, the broad and 
nohle brow, the chiseled lip and the auburn locks of 
thy mother ; but thine eye is the eye of a De Coucy." 
And for a few moments he again gazed in silence 
upon the youth. 

" My days are numbered, Clarence. The grim 
messenger has come to bid me leave the earth, on 
which I have looked and trod for fourscore years, 
and go to that land, our only knowledge of which 
we gain from the philosopher's theory and the poet's 
dream. I welcome the grave, with its solemn still- 
ness and unbroken quiet, where I can repose after 
my long, unvaried, and weary pilgrimage. You, 
Clarence, are young, and happy, and buoyant with 
hope ; and in advancing along the path of life, you 
look upon the bright surface of the flowers that 
spring up before you, and mark not the deadly 
serpent that lurks at their roots. But a few years, 
and the treachery of friendship, the sting of ingrati- 
tude, and the faithlessness of love, will teach you 
the heartlessness and sordid selfishness of the world. 
I dread not the change I am about to undergo, for 
I have nought of happiness to lose. Sickly and de- 
formed, I have been for years the sport and mock- 
ery of men. Life, therefore, instead of being a 
source of happiness, has become to me a curse. I 
withdrew myself at an early age, from the scrutiny 
and sneer of men, and passed the long day and the 
silent night at the fire of the laboratory or over the 
writings of the sage. I wasted the vigor of life in 
vain and unprofitable study — in striving to pene- 
trate the secrets of nature, and to learn the myste- 
ries of the occult sciences. I inquired with the as- 



CLARENCE DE COUCY. 93 

trologer what caused the mysterious movement of 
the sun, moon, and stars; and sought to learn their 
hidden influence over the destinies of men. 1 
watched with the naturalist the budding, the growth, 
and the decay of the plant. Though unconnected 
with men in action, I was linked to them in thought. 
From history I endeavored to obtain a knowledge 
of their characters, and to learn the hidden motives 
that influenced their conduct. I have even strove 
to gain from Death its secret ; and watched by the 
bedside of the dying when they writhed in agony 
beneath the grasp of an unseen power — when the 
blood curdled in the vein, and the death-chill crept 
upward from the icy limbs to the breast, where the 
heart beat fainter and fainter, and the eye became 
clouded and glazed, and the mind reeled from its 
throne. But I learned nothing: 'They died and 
left no sign.' And bitter experience has taught me, 
like Faustus, to find nothing in the little knowledge 
I possess but its inutility. But you, my child, are 
young, and comely, and vigorous. The lettered 
scroll and the crucible are not for you. The sword 
must carve out a high career for you among your 
fellow men. I have much to say to you, Clarence, 
and but a brief time to say it in. Report has reach- 
ed me that you are betrothed to a woman of obscure 
birth at Venice. Is it true T' 
" I am, indeed, father ; and Agnes is beautiful" — 
" Beautiful ! but would you disgrace the name 
which you have received unspotted and unstained 
through a long line of noble and gallant ancestors 1 
The brave knights and haughty dames that sur- 



94 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

round 3-011 would start from their frames, were you 
to bring into these halls a plebian stranger." 

" But I have plighted my faith to her. I have 
sworn" — 

" What care I for 3'our silly oaths 1 Better be 
broken than that, by so shameful an alliance, you 
should contaminate the blood of the De Couc3 r s. 
Better that you should descend childless to the 
grave, and be buried in your armor and with your 
sword, tin' last of your line. But I have selected 
you a bride becoming your rank — one of a race as 
ancient and noble as your own. Anna St. Clair 
you must wed" — 

" But Agnes, father"— 

"You will wed her, for she is beautiful— her e3 r e 
is more piercing than the falcon's — her hair is glos- 
sier than the raven's wing — her step more stately 
than the antelope's" — 

" But Agnes, father" — 

" Her kindred — her jewels and her gold — her 
broad domains — shall gain rank, and power, and 
wealth for you" — 

"But Agnes, father !" 

"Would you have me rest quiet in my grave? 
Are you proud of your ancestral honors 1 Do you 
value my blessing ?" 

" I do— I do ; but must I leave"— 

" Yes, for ever leave her and forget her, as she 
has already doubtless forgotten you. Like her na- 
tion, she is as fickle as the changing wind. Her 
vows were made but to be broken. Swear to me 
now that you will wed Anna St. Clair: if you love 
me, swear!" 



CLARENCE DE COUCY. 95 

On his knees, by the bedside, the youth swore to 
obey his wishes, and called Heaven to witness the 
sincerity of his oath. The dying father raised his 
withered and trembling hands, and, in the language 
of the strongest affection, blessed his child. He 
strove to say something more, but his voice became 
choked and inaudible, and he sank back upon his 
pillow. Clarence called in the ancient butler, and 
they endeavored to resuscitate him, but in vain. 
The dull film gathered on his eye, and the last cold- 
ness upon his limbs, and in a few moments he ceas- 
ed to breathe. 

Although the Marquis De Coucy had gained, by 
his retired life, his peculiar studies, and his eccen- 
tricities, the reputation of being on rather too inti- 
mate terms with a nameless, black-coated gentle- 
man, to be a good Christian ; yet money easily ob- 
tained (and what will it not 1) the prayers and in- 
tercessions of the church. He was laid in state in 
his castle hall, and the consecrated tapers were 
placed at his head and at his feet. He was buried 
in consecrated ground, and with Christian rites. 
The holy water was sprinkled on him — the holy 
psalm sung over him — the holy prayer said at his 
grave — and the bell of the neighboring monastery 
tolled his knell. 

I will now wield the story-teller's wand, and con- 
jure a different scene before the kind reader who 
has vouchsafed to peruse my tale : 

It was the close of one of those delightful days of 
summer, so peculiar to the ' garden of Europe' — 
bright Italy. The daylight was fast fading away, — 



96 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

and the moon, full-orbed and ' beaming silver 
bright,' shed its rich and softening beams on the 
lofty palaces of Venice and the dark blue waves of 
the Adriatic. The song of the gondolier, the peal 
of music, and the hum of the dense and restless 
multitude that thronged the streets, rose often upon 
the still and balmy air. In a retired section of the 
city, where were situated the residences of the less 
wealthy part of the populace, dwelt Alberto Coren- 
ni, a respectable merchant. Picture to yourself a 
small chamber in the back part of his dwelling. 
The walls were decorated with several sketches 
whose delicacy of outline and coloring told that 
they were the work of a female hand. In one 
corner of the room stood a harp, which bore evi- 
dence to the musical talent possessed by the inhab- 
itant. On a small circular table that graced the 
centre of the room, were several vases of rare flow- 
ers, whose bright hues and fragrant odors amply 
repaid the time and care required for their cultiva- 
tion. The window, which reached the ground, 
opened into a verandah, around the slender pillars 
of which clung the fragrant honey-suckle and clus- 
tering jessamine. Beyond was a small garden, filled 
with flowering plants and blossoming shrubs, redo- 
lent of perfume ; and in its centre was a circular 
grass plat, green enough to woo the nightly dances 
of Titania and the fairies. 

On a sofa, placed near one of the windows, sat a 
young and exquisitely beautiful female. Her cheek, 
in which the lily and the rose were blended, rested 
on her hand as she gazed out into the garden. Her 
dark and glossy hair hung in curling ringlets down 



CLARENCE DE COUCY. 97 

a neck whiter than ivory. Her dress was of that 
light and airy fashion worn by the Venetian ladies 
at that period. Her foot, which pressed a cushion- 
ed stool, was cased in a slipper so exceedingly small 
that it might have pinched the toes of Cinderella 
herself. Her zneditations (young ladies at times do 
meditate,) were broken by a quick step along the 
passage that led to her apartment, and by the en- 
trance of a young man, whose knightly dress and 
lofty bearing told that he was of patrician rank. 
His figure was tall and elegantly proportioned ; his 
features were regular and intellectual ; and his eye 
was particularly striking, it was so large, and black, 
and piercing. He seated himself by the fair Vene 
tian, and, grasping her hand, he gazed for some 
moments, ere he spoke, upon her rare and dream- 
like beauty. 

" I have come, dear Agnes, to tell you that neces- 
sity compels me to leave you for a time. A mes- 
senger has arrived from my father, summoning me 
home. Disease has wasted his strength — years press 
heavily upon him — and he feels as if his stay on 
earth was short." 

" You are going to leave me, Clarence ?" 

" But for a few months, dearest ! That duty 
which I owe, and that love which I bear to my 
father, bid me hasten to him. And I have been 
long, very long from home, too. Worlds would 
not tempt me to be away from him in his last hours. 
There is a dark prophecy about the De Coucy that 
receives not the dying blessing of his father." 

"I shall never see you again !" 

« Agnes ! Agnes ! think not so." 



98 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

"Your kindred and friends will oppose your 
union with me— poor and unknown as I am." 

" What care 1 for friends and kinsmen ? What 
care I, think yon, for rank and gold '.'" 

" You will see many of the high-born dames of 
your native land, and you yourself will forget me." 

"Never! never! your suspicious are cruel — are 
unjust." 

" I had a dream last night, De Couey— a wild, 
strange dream. I thought I was in your own sunny 
France, — and before me rose your own dark castle, 
such as you have described it to me, with its lofty 
battlements, its moat and massive walls. And as I 
looked, the gates opened, and the drawbridge fell ; 
and a gay cavalcade of knights and ladies rode out. 
And you were one, — and by your side, mounted on 
a milk-white palfrey, was a lady dressed in her bri- 
dal robes. And your retainers followed in their 
gala dresses. And I heard the bells of the old mon- 
astery, you have so often mentioned, ring out. merry 
peals. The scene changed : You stood by an altar 
in a chapel ; the lady in the bridal dress stood there 
too ; and the aged priest raised his hands to bless 
you. I stepped in between you and your bride ; I 
heard a shriek, and then all was confused and indis- 
tinct. The scene changed again : I stood, as before, 
near your castle walls,— and another procession 
came out from the gates ; not a pageant, as before, 
but a sad and solemn train. There came a hearse, 
with its dark pall and black plumes; and your 
retainers followed, two and two, in mourning, and 
with downcast looks ; and they wound their way 
to the tomb of your ancestors; and ere they had 



CLARENCE DE COUCY. 99 

lowered the coffin into the damp vault, I approach- 
ed, and looked, and— it was yours ! Then I shrieked, 
and woke." 

" Trust me, Agnes, on the honor of a knight : ay, 
I will bind myself by an oath, too, dark and solemn 
as your dream. Bring me a lance, and a cup of 
wine." 

The lovers wounded themselves in the left arm, 
and mingled their blood in the sparkling liquor. 
Kneeling before her, with his hand on a crucifix, 
Clarence swore to be hers— to be hers only, and for- 
ever; and if he violated his oath, he prayed that he 
might be accursed— that infamy might blacken his 
name, and tha; he, stripped of his honors and his 
wealth,migln descend childless to the grave: then lift- 
ed and drained the cup. Rising from his keeling pos- 
ture, De Coucy approached his betrothed. He threw 
his arms around her, and drew her trembling and 
shrinking form nearer and nearer to his breast. He 
imprinted a long and burning kiss upon her coral 
lips, and then rushed from the room. 

Agnes remained for a moment fixed and motion- 
less as a statue. As the fall of her lover's footsteps 
grew fainter and fainter, the deadening sense of 
drear and utter loneliness came over her, and she 
sank upon the sofa and wept. 

The retainers of the old Marquis De Coucy 
mourned his death for three whole weeks, — and, 
like dutiful vassals, attempted to drown their grief 
in bumpers of Burgundy. At the end of that peri- 
od, the butler closed the doors of the wine-vaults, 



100 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

and thus put a stop to this singular as well as some- 
what expensive mode of lamentation. 

The aged crones in the neighborhood, who had 
not reaped the " benefit of his dying," coupled the 
name of the late Marquis with wizzard and necro- 
mancer. Had they been permitted to get drunk on 
Clarence's liquors, they would doubtless have ex- 
tolled his father as a pattern of godliness and the 
personification of every virtue ; for wine is said to 
have a wonderful effect in softening the heart, and 
rendering even ancient ladies both amiable and 
charitable. Often in the long winter evenings, 
when the peasants were gathered around their cot- 
tage fires, and the chill wind howled desolately 
through the adjoining forest trees, these weird 
dames would tell wild tales of strange lights that 
gleamed at midnight from the dead man's room, and 
ugly forms that held their orgies at his grave. But 
the monks, who had said prayers for his soul, de- 
clared that the old Marquis slept quietly in his coffin, 
and that the moon shone as brightly on his marble 
slab as if there reposed beneath it a holy friar or a 
sinless saint. 

Clarence mourned long and deeply for his father; 
but time gradually healed his wounded spirit. His 
" inconsolable grief" first changed to a deep melan- 
choly, then to a sober sadness, and at last settled 
down into an affectionate remembrance. Hi8 
thoughts at first turned often on Agnes, and her 
image rose up before him in his dreams. But he 
remembered the last words of his father, and strove 
to forget her. Time hung heavy on his hands. 
He had wandered, till weary, through the long cor- 



CLARENCE DE COUCY. 101 

ridors and echoing halls of his castle. The uncouth 
pictures of his ancestors, and the strange garniture 
of the rooms, and the mystic instruments and letter- 
ed parchments of his father, soon lost that charm of 
novelty which a long residence from home had at 
first attached to them. He had rode, and hunted, 
and fished, until riding, and hunting and fishing, 
became stale. As a last resource against ennui, he 
determined upon visiting Anna St. Clair. 

" Women are fickle." So are men. And Clarence 
De Coucy, who but six months before had so solemn- 
ly sworn to love and cherish Agnes Corennie, and 
then fancied that he could hardly separate himself 
from her to close the eyes of his dying sire, now 
remembered her only as a beautiful vision that had 
appeared to make glad one portion of his path 
through life. He showed but little knowledge of 
Woman, when he thought that her love for him wa9 
a feeling of the hour. When the report of his being 
betrothed to a lady in France reached her ear, and 
the rumor became confirmed by his unbroken si- 
lence, the intense love which had so long held pos- 
session of her heart, gave place to a feeling of re- 
venge—burning, deep-rooted, and implacable. 



•• This is rather a strange way, to pledge oneself 
to marry a lady whom one never saw, and may not 
fancy," said the Marquis to himself, as he rode 
leisurely along towards the chateau of St. Clair. 
" It takes two also to make a bargain, and how do 
I know but she may dislike me 1 Then she may be 
a perfect Witch of Endor in person — hump-backed 
—lame — cross-eyed— and what is worse, cross-tem- 



102 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

pered. I had as lief marry the Devil as a cross 
woman. If [ recollect, rightly, however, my father 
said she was beautiful : so are leopards beautiful, 
but they bite and tear. I wish I were informed about 
her disposition. And Agnes too" — and the young 
Marquis drew a deep sigh, for he had not forgotten 
the surpassing loveliness of her person, and the 
sweetness of her temper. 

The building soon appeared in sight, with its ex- 
tensive lawn and broad pleasure grounds, that spoke 
loudly of the luxurious tasle and ample wealth of 
the owner. Riding up Ihe long gravel-walk, shaded 
wiih giant elms, he reached and alighted at the 
steps. One of the servants in attendance took the 
bridle of his horse, while another waited upon him 
to the hall, where he was met and welcomed by the 
owner. In a moment more he was ushered into ihe 
drawing-room and presented to the Marchioness and 
her daughter. 

"Heavens ! what an angel !" mentally ejacula- 
ted Clarence, as he gazed upon the latter. Anna 
St. Clair was strikingly bcauliful. Her form was 
exquisitely moulded, and of fairy lightness. Her 
hair was auburn ; and as aba sat near the wiudow, 
the bright sunlight fell upon it, and every curl 
seemed edged with gold. Her eyes were large, soft, 
and hazel: and the effect upon De Coucy in one 
short hour must have been potent, for ere that time 
had elapsed, he had made certain comparisons be- 
tween her and .Agnes, which ihe latter would have 
resented as rather disparaging. When he rose to 
leave, the Marquis St. Clair reproached him gently 
for having passed so long a time in the vicinity 



CLARENCE DE COUCY. 103 

without crossing his threshold; and the eye of 
Anna spoke so plainly " do come again,"" 1 that he 
promised to visit them often in future— a promise, 
by the by, which he most religiously kepi. 

It is an old and frue saying, that " love-making is 
a thing to hear and not to tell." We will therefore 
not dwell ou the courtship, but hasten to the de- 
nouement. The preliminaries had been settled ia 
due form, and the day for the wedding was at hand. 
A brilliant parly had assembled on the evening pre- 
vious, at the chateau of the bride's father. The 
halls of the building rung with the loud laugh, the 
gay song, and the notes of merry music ; and the 
oaken floors shook beneath the feet of the dancers. 
The dresses of the ladies were magnificent, and so 
covered with diamonds that the light of the waxen 
tapers were reflected a thousand fold. When the 
hour for supper had arrived, the young Marquis 
with his youlhful bride led the way to the banquet 
hall. The guests had scarcely seated themselves, 
and the covers of the dishes been removed, when 
the door opened, and a youthful Knight entered the 
room. The drops of dew, which sparkled on the 
edges of the snow-white plumes that waved in his 
riding cap and dimmed the golden clasp of his scar- 
let mantle, showed that he had passed the evening 
under the open skies. His face was concealed be- 
neaih a mask, but his form bore evidence to his 
youth. He appeared to be a stranger to all present. 
The old Marquis supposed it must be an emissary 
from Court, come to vvaich the words of the guests. 
Clarence conjectured that it was some intimate 
friend of his own, who, having come suddenly into 



104 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

the neighborhood, had, for a jest, resolved to make 
one at the wedding, without being known. The 
stranger immediately seated himself at the table 
directly opposite the groom and bride, and kept his 
eyes fixed constantly upon them. To the surprise 
of those in the vicinity, he neither tasted of food or 
wine. His presence and strange conduct drew the 
attention of all, and soon dampened the spirit of 
conviviality that had previously reigned. The 
guests retired at an early hour, and last of all went 
the masked Knight, who, mounting a fleet horse, 
rode rapidly away. 

The morning broke auspiciously for the bridal. 
Not a cloud hung in the broad blue sky. At an 
early hour the gay pageant issued from the gates of 
De Coucy Castle, and the old drawbridge shook 
beneath the trampling of the horses. There were 
gallant knights in gilded armor, and gay ladies 
sparkling in jewels. And then came the bride on a 
milk white palfrey ; and by her side rode the happy 
Clarence ; and his retainers followed in an almost 
endless train. The bells of the monastery chimed 
merrily, and the brazen horns rung loud and clear. 
As they gained the road that led to the church, the 
stranger guest, who had interrupted the banquet of 
the previous evening, again made his appearance, 
riding along on his coal-black steed, and his white 
plumes waving in the morning breeze. Onward he 
came, and dashing by the cavalcade, he alighted at 
the chapel door and walked up the head of the aisle. 
The bridal party soon arrived. 

The Marquis De Coucy and his lovely bride stood 
by the altar, and their friends were gathered around 



CLARENCE DE COUCY. 105 

and the aged priest was there to perform the cere- 
mony. The services commenced, and the priest 
asked the Marquis St. Clair if he consented to the 
union ? Ere he could reply, the stranger spoke 
aloud " I do not" — and stepping rapidly through 
the crowd, he placed himself between Clarence and 
his bride. 

" Who and what are you," demanded De Coucy, 
" that dares thus to intrude here ?" 

Throwing aside his cap and tearing off his mask, 
the Knight exhibited the beautiful features of Agnes 
Corennie. Her long black hair was thrown back 
from her marble brow, and her dark speaking eye 
gleamed with an expression of the fiercest malignity. 

" You know her now. And do you remember 
my dream, Clarence ? It was a dark and fearful 
one, but strictly shall it be fulfilled." 

Approaching nearer and nearer to the trembling 
groom, she suddenly drew a dagger from beneath 
her riding dress and stabbed him to the heart. Ere 
her arm could be arrested, she had drawn the 
weapon from the wound and sheathing it in her 
breast, fell a corpse. 

" Raise me, that I may once more see the golden 
sun, and look again upon the green earth." 

The attendants slowly raised the emaciated form 
of Anna St. Clair, and placed her by the open win- 
dow. Her eye had lost its youthful brilliancy, and 
her cheek was pale and sunken. * * * * In 
a little week, and the grave closed over the virgin 
bride. 



106 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Beneath the ancient oak, that stood in a retired 
corner of the village burial place, slept the Vene- 
tian maid. 



And they shrouded the corse of Clarence De 
Coucy in his knighlly armor, and palled his coffin 
with his ancestral banner ; and with the solemn 
rites and imposing ceremony of the Roman Church, 
they laid him in the vault of his lofty line— the last 
of his race and name. 



THE LOVERS. 107 



THE LOVERS. 

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 

The watch-liglit of the lovers stream'd 
Forth from their lattice high, 
As lost in deep discourse they sate, 
While summer-winds went by ; 
The ban-dog howl'd, the clouds did lower, 

Winds shook the willow's stem, 
The clock toll'd out the midnight hour — 
What were such sounds to them 1 

Oh, steal not on their tranced speech, 
Of smile and murmur'd sigh ; 
Shake not the dew-drop from the rose, 
Dim not the opal's die ; 
For life hath many a path of thorn 

To wound the feet that rove, 
But yet ! no sunnier spot than this— 
Break not the trance of love. 



108 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



SONG OF THE SYBIL. 

BY C. W. EVEREST. 

In olden time, when Greece had lost her sway, 
And Rome was peerless mistress of the world — 
In a lone spot, in fair Italia's clime, 
Upon a beetling cliff's projecting point, 
That high o'erhung a slumbering vale beneath, 
A Sybil sat ! Wan grief had marked her brow, 
And Care had left his lengthened furrows deep ; 
Disheveled was her hair, and her light robe, 
In careless fold, her shrinking form concealed ; 
Her eye was restless, and her wasted hand 
Swept wildly o'er a lyre, beside her placed, 
And thus she sung : 

1 Life! 'tis a cheat! 
For fair is the light of its morning skies, 
And bright are the hues of his varying dyes ; 

But its splendor is fleet; 
And the promising glory too speedily flies — 

Life ! 'tis a cheat ! 

1 Hope ! thou art vain ! 
For fond is thy promise in young life's hour, 
And joyous thy song in its sun lit bower ; 

But sorrow and pain 
Soon sway the lorn heart with resistless power — 

Hope ! thou art vain ! 



SONG OF THE SYBIL. 109 

' Love ! what art thou ? 
Though ardent awhile thy consuming flame, 
And thy maddening frenzy none can tame — 

Yet the altered brow, 
And the eye, and the mien, do all proclaim, 

Love ! what art thou ! 

1 Friendship deceives ! 
For sweet is its flattering vow of esteem, 
To the youthful heart, as the joys of a dream ; 

And while it believes, 
And the promising pleasures realities seem, 

Friendship deceives ! 

' Death ! thou art blest ! 
For thou freest the soul from its shackles of blight, 
And the shades of the good, clad in garments of light, 

Do joyfully rest, 
Or rove the elysian fields of delight — 

Death ! thou art blest !' 



110 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



STANZAS. 

Come, my people, enter ihou into thy chambers." Isa 

Where am those chambers of their rest ? 

Oh, Seer! why didst thou not unfold? 
And why to thy prophetic breast 

Was not this yearning secret told ? 

To what lone spot do we repair, 
In earth beneath, or heaven afar, — 

And what pursuits employ us there, 
While waiting for the judgment bar ? 

Say, does the shivering spirit haste, 
Leaving its lone, forgotten clay, 

To seek amid the starry waste 
Some bright oasis for its stay ? 

Crows greener there the sylvan bower, 
Than what we leave behind on earth'? 

Smiles sweeter there the rosy flower — 
No winds to blight its tender birth ? 

Doth brighter gold or deeper blue 
Invest that pale and cloudless sky ? 

Their glassy waves more lovely too 
Than those now sparkling in mine eye ? 



STANZAS. Ill 

And, wandering through the twilight glens, 

Doth love again its idol know — 
And purer ties unile the friends 

That walked in fellowship below 1 

What minstrels, from the courts of day, 
To that abode eh'all bring their lyres, 

And soothe our boding fears away, 
With music from their golden wires 1 

Do rays from off the distant Throne 

Light up the amethystine air — 
And glimpses of the City, shown, 

Beguile our weary waiting there 7 

Do ever roaming winds betray 

Where Vengeance holds her foes entombed 1 
And clouds rise dun upon the day 

From out the chasms of the doomed 7 



"Where those parted spirits slumber, 

Restless mortal, ask no more ; 
For soon thy shade shall join their number, 

Tenant of that dusky shore I" 

Ex R, 



112 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



DAY DREAMING. 

BY MARY ANN DODD. 

How do the memories we love, 

Come like a fairy spell, 
When far away— the banished heart 

Will on home-tokens dwell. 

One smooth, bright curl of auburn hair, 

Doth round my finger twine, 
And then I see the fair brow, where 

Its sister tresses shine. 

I muse— and in my waking dream, 

Swiftly sweet visions come ; 
And fancy leads me gently back 

To thee, mine own green home. 

The summer rose is blooming now, 

Throwing its fragrance wide ; 
Again I breathe the mountain air, 

And Thou art by my side: 

Thou ! whose dear presence from my thoughts 

Can every care beguile, 
With thy sweet words of innocence 

And ever sunny smile. 

Once more those blue, mirth-loving eyes, 

Upon my pathway shine, 
And as I view each well-known spot, 

Thy bright glance follows mine. 



DAY DREAMING. 113 

We stray in quiet converse, where 

The sun-lit waters glance, 
Or read beneath the elm tree's shade 

Some tale of old romance. 

I see thy heart's deep tenderness 

Told in its mirror fair, 
As every thought the poet loves, 

Finds its own echo there. 

And when the twilight shadows fall 

Forbidding far to roam, 
That voice of wave-like melody 

Is singing " home ! sweet home I" 

'Tis gone !— and I am left alone- 
Faded the vision fair ! 

My clasping fingers only hold 
The lock of satin hair. 

While others doat on gems of price, 

One" treasured tress is mine ; 
And many a dear day-dream I owe 

To this bright curl of thine. 



114 THE MOSS ROSE- 



A CHILD AT PRAYER. 

BY REV. R. TURNBUIX. 

Behold a scene of love, 

And holiness sublime, 
To lift the soul above 

This narrow earthly clime ; 
A lovely, little child at prayer, 

Her parents standing by, 
Gazing upon their infant fair 

With deep delighted eye : 
A holy halo fills the place, 
A light divine, a heavenly grace ! 

Her face's radiant glow, 

Her dark and pensive eye, 
Her alabaster brow, 

On which dark ringlets lie, 
Her little hands upturned to heaven, 

Her body gently bent ;— 
All mingling, like the hues of even 

With mellow sunbeams blent, — 
Give to the scene a magic glow 
Which none but happy spirits know. 

This is a sight to wake 
Of past delight the dreams, 

Like music on the lake, 
Or dying sunny gleams ; 



A CHILD AT PRAYER. 115 

To raise the sigh for heauty flown 

Which time can ne'er restore, 
To draw the tear for gladness gone 
For music heard no more ; 
And conjure up a vision grand 
Of beautiful, but vanished land ! 

This, too, should rouse our faith, 

And bear the soul away, 
Above the shadowy earth 

To climes of cloudless day ; 
For this is heaven begun in time, 

A prelude of that bliss, 
Which matchless, endless, and sublime, 

No tongue can e'er express, — 
A glory from the world above, 
A sunbeam of eternal love ! 

O, well may angels gaze, 

Upon the lovely sight, 
And well to heaven may raise 

The song of deep delight ; 
For richer incense never rose 

From Eastern shrines to God, 
And lovelier scene did ne'er repose 

In Judah's bright abode : 
O 'tis a gleam of glory given 
To point the raptured soul to Heaven ! 



116 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

MARY STUART. 

THE DAY BEFORE HER EXECUTION. 
BY G. M. SNOW. 

No jewelled diadem is gleaming 

On my regal brow ; 
Yet my air of queenly seeming, 

I wear it even now. 
With prison walls ye may enclose 

This body— but my soul, 
The proud free soul, my Maker gave, 

Ye never can control. 

The mandate for my death ye bear ; 

Joy fills this widowed breast ; 
My life I would not that ye spare— 

I long to be at rest : 
For prisoned years, Life's clouded morn, 

And blasted hopes have been 
To me your sovereign's richest boon, 

The queendom of a Queen. 

Oh ! pleasant France ! thy glad streams saw 

The joyous lapse of years, 
When thy fond heart, love's impress bore, 

Nor knew nor grief, nor tears : 
Those arrowy streams, their depths of blue, 

In music still glide on, 
But those bright, happy years I knew, 

Those blissful years are gone. 



MARY STUART. 117 

My soul with treachery ne'er had part, 

Thou know'st, Great Teacher, Thou ! 
That what is written in my heart, 

Is written on my brow. 
False tongues have wrought this deed of death ; 

A mighty nation's name 
Is sullied by the withering breath, 

The Siroc breath of shame. 

Weep not my Marys !* death to me 

Comes like a dream of home ; 
From a weary life it sets me free, 

With the angel throng to roam. 
Take all the Stuart has to give, 

Her love, her latest sigh ; 
Ye have seen in me how a Queen should live, 

Ye shall see how a Queen should die. 

Mary had four favorite niaids of honor named Mary. 



118 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

THE SEASONS. 

BY C. W. EVEREST. 

Behold, fond maul 

See here thy pictured life: pass some few years, 

Thy fiow'ring Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength, 

Thy sober Autumn fading into age, 

And pale concluding Winter comes at last, 

And shuts the scene." [Thomson. 

The Seasons present to tbe contemplative lover 
of nature scenes of no ordinary interest. Who can 
behold their beauty and order unmoved 1 Who can 
pass by the wonderful organization and surprising 
harmony of the brief period which we term a year, 
without experiencing the deepest emotions of admi- 
ration, and at times blended with a strange and not 
unwelcome feeling of sadness 1 

Much has been said and sung upon this most 
sublime theme, but it has lost none of its interest. 
The Seasons still roll their silent round, as pleas- 
ing, as sad, and as harmonious as ever. They have 
continued on in their unbroken order, since the 
time when " the morning stars sang together" at Cre- 
ation's birth, and will move on in the same silent 
grandeur until " the Heavens shall be rolled togeth- 
er as a scroll, and the elements melt with fervent 
heat." But the Seasons present no stronger claim 
to the attention of man, than from the affinity they 
bear to his own strange and evanescent existence. 
Emphatically may they be termed a faithful em- 
blem of the human life. 

Like the fleeting year, Life hath Its Spring-time. 
The young heart of the pilgrim bounds with joy, and 



THE SEASONS. 119 

dilates with blissful anticipations. His bosom glows 
with warm emotions, and the " streamlet of his af- 
fections" gushes forth, unimpeded by the barriers of 
dissimulation or distrust. Knowing no guile, he 
looks for none in others, but esteems all mankind as 
the happy brethren of one harmonious family. He 
listens with credulity to the soft whispers of hope, 
and trusts that all which promises will as faithfully 
perform. Life appears to him " a glorious garden, — 
above all sunshine, and beneath all flowers." But 
the golden hours of childhood and youth roll swiftly 
away, and bring him to the meridian of manhood — 
the Summer of life. 

Manhood opens before him new scenes and situa- 
tions. Cares, and the business of the world, gather 
around him, and the pursuit of pleasure yields for 
awhile to the severer duties of life. Still he hopes ; 
and from the turmoil of perplexities and anxieties, 
he forms golden plans of future enjoyment, and 
looks forward with fond anticipation to the evening 
of life, when the troubles of the world will no longer 
agitate his quiet repose. But the vigor of manhood 
passes, and the Autumn of life gathers around him. 

He now turns a retrospective glance over the bu- 
ried years of his existence, and they appear like the 
mists of the morning. How have the bright dreams 
of his fancy been realized 1 Where are those enjoy- 
ments which his youth-time and his early manhood 
painted "? the clear skies and the calm sunshine of 
hope 1 Ah ! the world has proved to him but too 
truly " a fleeting show." The sunlight of hope has 
vanished before the dark storms of reality. He has 
seized with eager grasp the extended hand of friend- 



120 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

ship, but it has sent back an icy chill to his heart. 
He has knelt at the smiling rill of pleasure, but it 
has receded from his lip. He has grasped the bauble 
of wealth, but it proved a hollow treasure. He has 
grasped at every rose-bud of earthly bliss, and a 
thorn from each has stung him : — and his drooping 
heart is covered with the withered foliage of his 
brightest hopes. Soon his gloomy Autumn passes, 
and old age— the cheerless Winter of life— closes 
o'er him. 

Dark is now his existence. Storms encompass 
him. The fountain of his affections is congealed. 
Life becomes a dreary burden to itself, and his cold 
heart yearns for its colder resting-place. For a while 
the flame trembles in its socket, and then goes out 
in darkness. 

Thus have we contemplated the Seasons, and thus 
the affinity they bear to the life of man. And do 
they teach no lesson 1 Indeed, every tiling in nature 
is rife with a moral. The little rill, as it pursues its 
silent course to the ocean, may admonish us that 
life is thus passing on, silently and imperceptibly, to 
the great ocean of eternity. The rose- bud smiling 
on its fragile stem, may remind us that thus are the 
flowers of life, frail and perishing. But the Seasons 
are the most faithful monitor. They remind us, as 
they wheel their silent round, in a language too 
plain to be mistaken, that Life hath its Seasons, 
and that they pass away ! Let us then give heed to 
their lesson, and profit by their instruction. Let us 
be admonished that youth is the seed-time of life, 
and that " what a man soweth, that shall he also 
reap :" and let us sow abundantly of the rich seeds 



THE SEASONS. 121 

of virtue and knowledge. Thus will our Spring- 
time be rendered profitable and delightful — our 
Summer will bear pleasing testimony to our labors — 
our Autumn will be redolent of fruits — and the fire- 
side of our Winter will be cheered and enlivened 
by the treasures of the mental store-house— the 
Granary of the Soul. 



122 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



HER SPIRIT HATH FLOWN TO ITS REST. 

BY C. W. EVEREST. 

Her spirit hath flown to its rest, 

Afar from our sorrowing clod; 
To the bright happy land of the blest, ' 

And the smiles of its glorious God : 
She lingered a season below, 

But to wash from her spirit the stain: 
Then soared from our valley of wo, 

To the far heights of glory again ! 

She hath flown to the mansions above, 

And found out the blood-ransomed throng ; 
She hath drank of the fountains of love, 

And joined in the Seraphim's song ; 
She hath gone to the land of her birth, 

Where the anthems of holiness rise ; 
She wearied with dwelling on earth, 

And returned to her home in the skies ! 

Her spirit hath flown to its rest, 

Its sorrows and sufferings o'er ; 
It hath gained the far clime of the blest, — 

It will visit our cold earth no more ! 
Then weep not — 'twere sinful to mourn, 

That the Tyrant our fond hope hath riven : 
Though she's gone, and no more may return, 

She bathes in the glory of Heaven ! 



THIBALT D'AUVKRGNE. 123 



THIBALT D'AUVERGNE. 

BY HAZLETON WALKLEY. 

" Where is the Count D' Auvergne 1 I owe him life. 
Stand back Guillaume des Barres ! Your foot is on 
his chest. That is he in the black armor I " * * * 

" The Count made another effort to speak. The 
king stooped over him, and inclined his ear. ' Tell 
her,' said the broken accents of the dying man, ' tell 
her, that for her love, 1 died to save your life.' " 

" ' I will,' said Philip Augustus, ' on my faith, I 
will ! and I know her not, or she will weep your 
fall.' " Philip Augustus. 

The sun above the tented field, 

Rose o'er the hills of France ; 
His beams flashed bright on spear and shield, 

Helmet and polished lance ; 
For hosts of arm'ed men were there, 

In battle's stern array, 
Each heart heat quick — each hlade was bare, 

Impatient for the fray. 

Her laurel wreath, in fevered dream, 

Already Fancy weaves ; 
And youthful ardor, at the gleam, 

Pants for the rustling leaves : 



124 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Oh ! many a brain that inly burns 

With hopes of high renown, 
Will strew the clod the ploughman turns 

Before the sun goes down. 

A monarch with a monarch's power 

Was on the battle plain, 
Who ne'er would to another cower 

Though all his hosts were slain ; 
Against oppression's blackened woes 

His noble blade was bare, 
And he would quell his haughty foes, 

Or bravely perish there. 

But there was not, of all the throng 

That swelled that monarch's might, 
A knight more brave, an arm more strong, 

Or practised more in fight, 
Than he with crest of sable dye, 

And armor black as night, 
Who marked, as with a heedless eye, 

The dread, approaching fight. 

His steed, that chafing pawed the ground, 

The battle's fearful din— 
The dying shriek— the onset sound — 

What were they all to him I 
Deep in his breast consuming lies, 

With ashes strewn above, 
The wasting spark that never dies, 

Of unrequited love. 



THIBALT D'AUVERGNE. 125 

Aye, he had loved in early years, 

Ere Manhood on his brow 
Had furrowed out its thousand cares, 

Or blanched its cheerful glow ! 
His love, which language ill reveals, 

Was for a matchless one ; 
Devotion, deep as the Indian feels 

Who bows him to the sun. 

Strong as the heart's deep passions are, 

Ere youthful dreams have flown, 
His hope, his all was centered there, 

He lived for her alone ! 
Though France held not a nobler name, 

Though of his house the pride, 
Yet dared he not, unknown to fame, 

To ask her for his bride ! 



Years passed away — that knight had been 

With warriors of renown, 
Where ranks of the proud Saracen, 

Before his sword went down ; 
And every battle that he won, 

And every field he fought 
Had but, for him, one hope alone — 

To win the love he sought. 

The foe was quelled— the wars were o'er- 

The Holy Land was free ; 
He sought the ancient halls once more, 

Of his young idolatry. 



126 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

The scenes that met his eager gaze, 

Each valley, hill and plain, 
Renewed the thoughts of other days, 

And boyhood's dreams again. 

The stream, to whose bright waters' play 

The wild flower nodded o'er, 
Still murmured on its pebbled way 

As peaceful as before ; 
And still those grey old towers were there, 

The lofty trees above, 
Where he had shown a lover's care, 

And won— a sister's love. 

But where was she ?— the fair— the young, 

Who had his idol been ; 
And why came not that beauteous one 

To smile upon him then ? 
Woe for his fame — the deeds of arms, 

That swelled his name of pride ! 
That peerless one, with all her charms, 

Is now a Monarch's bride ! 

To the warm fountain of his dreams 

A freezing current rolled ; 
Curdled its warm, its ardent streams, 

And left them sad and cold. 
The golden cords, that bound his heart 

To life — to hope — to bliss — 
At one fell blow were torn apart, 

And all was loneliness ! 



THIBALT d'aUVERGNE. 127 

And the wide world was all to him 

A barren desert wild, 
Where sprung to light no living thing, 

Nor blossom ever smiled. 
Now, he is on the battle plain, 

The brave are sweeping by, 
With a monarch rival's glittering train 

He is marshalled forth — to die. 

And to his ear swelled loudly out 

The brazen armor's clang ; 
The onset charge— the battle shout 

Of deadly conflict rang : 
Yet still he checked his chafing steed, 

And lingered from the fray, 
For little did that lone one heed 

How went the doubtful day. 

But hark ! whence comes the yielding cry, 

So wildly borne in air 1 
And whose the shout of victory 

So loudly echoed there 1 
See ! in the maddening tumult tossed, 

Monarch and banner reel, 
One moment more, and all is lost ! 

And France and Freedom yield ! 

One lingering look the warrior took 

Of earth, of sky and main, 
For well he knew that glorious book 

He ne'er might read again ; 



128 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Then spurred his courser with his might 

Free o'er the fallen brave — 
He plunged into the thickest fight, 

To rescue and to save ! 

Woe to the wretch who dares to stand 

Athwart his reckless way ! 
Or seeks to raise a recreant hand 

His whirlwind course to stay ! 
Destruction waits on every blow — 

Around him are the slain — 
The tide is turned upon the foe ; 

The king is up again ! 
* * * * * * 

The storm is past ; the strife is o'er : 

The conquering hosts return ; 
France waves her banner proud once more, 

But where is brave D'Auvergne ? 
Look where was turned the doubtful strife 

Amid the thickest dead ; 
There, as he saved a rival's life, 

His woes— his sorrows fled ! 



HOME OF THE DESOLATE. 129 



THE HOME OF THE DESOLATE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

BY C. W. EVEREST. 

" How many drink the cup 
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread 
Of misery ! Sore pierced by wintry winds, 
How many shrink into the sordid hut 
Of cheerless poverty !" 

Thomson. 

It was night — the storm howled sadly by— and 
the mother sat in silence by the scanty fire, that 
warmed and faintly lighted the wretched, dilapida- 
ted cottage, once, in brighter days, her happy home ! 
She had divided to her ragged and starving babes 
the little pittance of bread remaining to her, yet 
scarcely sufficing to satisfy the mad cravings of 
hunger! Little thought they that they claimed 
their mother's all : yet freely was it given, with a 
silent tear that it was all 1 She hushed their cries 
— soothed their sorrows — covered them with her 
tattered mantle— bade them a sad ' good-nighf— 
and returned to her sorrowful vigil. 

The night wore away, — and still sat the mother 
over the fading fire she could not replenish, waiting 
the coming of him whose returning footsteps once 
caused a thrill of joy through her bosom, and was 
hailed with boisterous glee by his little ones. Once, 

9 



130 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

lie promised at the altar to love and cherish her, 
and nobly, awhile, did he redeem the pledge. His 
cottage was the home of comfort, and his wife and 
infants divided his love ! But ah ! how changed ! 
He had become a Drunkard ! His business was 
neglected— his home was deserted— and his late re- 
turn was but the harbinger of woe ! He came to 
curse the innocent partner of his misery as the 
author of his wretchedness, and his frightened chil- 
dren shrunk away from him, screaming, as from a 
fiend ! Where waits he now ? The shadows of 
night have long darkened the landscape ! What 
delays his return 1— Alas ! the low haunt which has 
nightly witnessed the shameful revel, now echoes 
to his frantic shout ! Surrounded by boon compan- 
ions, he seeks to drown the memory of his sorrows 
in the bowl : while his wretched, starving, squalid 
wife still keeps her lonely vigil by her lonely hearth ! 
Stillness — solemn stillness, like the grave's, reigns 
in that dreary habitation : and no sound is heard, 
save when the fitful sighing of the wintry blast, or 
the low murmur of her dreaming infants, rouses 
the watcher from her trance. Then she raises her 
aching eyes to the dim dial, and with a glance to 
Heaven, turns to her lonely watch again. But now 
« the tempest of her feelings has grown too fierce to 
be repressed"— her bosom heaves with the wild 
emotions of her soul— and her thin hands seem en- 
deavoring to force back the bursting torrent of her 
tears! ****** 

* * * The clock struck the hour of 

midnight— and he came as wont ! With a fearful 



HOME OF THE DESOLATE. 131 

oath, he cursed his wife's fond care : and that 
mother's silent tears, and the low wail of his fright- 
ened babes, went up to God for witness ! * * 
Would you know the conclusion of the story ? Go,, 
ask the jail, the almshouse, and the grave— and they 
will tell you ! 



132 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



TO A CRICKET. 



Cease, cricket ! cease thy melancholy song , 
Its chiming cadence falls upon my ear 

With such a saddening influence all day long, 
I cannot bear those mournful notes to hear — 
Notes that will often start the unbidden tear, 

And wake the heart to memories of old days, 
When life knew not a sorrow or a fear — 

Forever basking in the sunny rays, 

Which seem so passing bright to youth's all trustful 
gaze. 

Once more my steps are stayed at eventide, 
Beneath the fairest moon that ever shone, 

Where the old oak threw out its branches wide 
Over the low roof of mine early home, 
Ere yet my bosom knew a wish to roam 

From the broad shelter of that ancient tree, 
Or dreamed of other lands beside our own, 

Beyond the boundary of that flowery lea — 

For the green valley there was world enough for me. 

A group are gathered round the household hearth, 
Where chilly autumn bids the bright flame play, 

And social converse sweet, and childhood's mirth, 
Swiftly beguile the lengthened eve away: 



TO A CRICKET. 133 

A laughing girl shakes back her tresses gay, 
With a half doubtful look, and wondering tone — 

" Hark ! there is music ! do you hear the lay 1 
Mother, what is it singing in the stone — 
Some luckless fairy wight imprisioned there alone 7" 

'Tis memory all, which doth the spell renew ; 

And though thy notes may strike the " electric 
chain," 
Thou canst not bring those buried forms to view, 

Or give me back my happy days again. 

Alone— I am alone : these tears in vain 
For the loved tenants of the tomb are given ; 

They sleep — no more to suffer grief or pain, 
No more to gaze upon the starlit heaven, 
Or with hushed hearts to list thy solemn strain at 
even. 

Wake nrjt remembrance thus ! for stern the fate 

That marks my pathway with a weary doom ; 
And to a heart so worn and desolate, 

Thy boding voice may add a deeper gloom. 

Tho' few the clouds which o'er the blue sky roam, 
And green the livery of our forest bowers, 

To warn us of a sure decay ye come, 
In sable guise, trailing the faded flowers, 
Singing the death-song sad of summer's waning 
hours. 

Those emerald robes will change to russet brown, 
Which summer over vale and hill-side cast ; 

To other skies that know no wintry frown, 

Bright birds shall wing their weary way at last ; 



134 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

And autumn's hectic hues which fade so fast, 
Will make the dark old woods awhile look gay ; 

But death must come when the rare show is past- 
Then cease thy chant, dark prophet of decay ! 
I cannot bear to Jiear thy melancholy lay. 



THE WATERFALL. 135 



THE WATERFALL. 

A BONNET. 
BY ISAAC C. PRAT. 

How still the scene, save where the waters pour 
Broad, massy sheets of silver far below 
Upon the gulf whence circling eddies flow, 

And revel with a wild, eternal roar ! 

Swift dash the impetuous torrents o'er the rocks ; 
Continuous clouds of foam like war-steeds spring, 
And, meeting wildly in the whirling ring, 

First plunge, then toss on high their necks' white 
locks. 

Along the verge, where turn the waters o'er, 
And at the base, where roving billows rush 
Headlong, with mad, interminable gush, 

The mist ascends, enrobing all the shore. 

Faint starlight glows now flush upon the scene. 

And decks a throne for Night's advancing Queen. 



136 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

LINES TO MY SISTER: 

Written in iier Album. 
BY MELZAR GARDNER. 

My sister dear, the thoughts 1 bring, 

As flowers, to deck this spotless page, 
Perchance may seem like those that spring 

From roots that feel the blight of age; 
But at the mention of that word — 

My sister! — youth awakes again, 
And pleasant memories are stirred, 

Of days unmarked by care or pain. 

Fond, faded hopes — the venom'd breath 

Of calumny — the blight of care — 
These mark, as with the touch of Death, 

Some of the later " hours that were ;" 
But back, beyond that darksome sea 

Of pain, and care, and grief, and tears, 
I find, when Memory turns to thee, 

The buried joys of childhood's years. 

And though in other lands I roam- 
Though other ties my fondness prove- 
Though here I find another home, 

And wife and children share my love — 
Though "husband !" " father!" have a sound 

As sweet as "brother," used to be ! 
Yet in my heart will aye be found, 
Room — my dear sister — room for thec! — 



LINES TO MY SISTER. 137 

And Mary, my most fervent prayer 

Is, that thy life may ever be 
As calm, as when the summer air 

Is sleeping on a moonlit sea ; — 
Bright, as the day-god's earliest glance — 

Sweet, as a song at midnight heard — 
And gladsome, as the ripple's dance, 

When by the soft-winged zephyrs stirred ! 

Should Pain or Sorrow ever shroud 

The blessed light of thy young years, 
May Hope's effulgence, through the cloud, 

Beam on thine heart though seen through tears ; 
May Faith the dark illusion break, 

And Love wipe off each tear that flows, 
As morning breezes gently shake 

The glistening dew-drop from the rose ! 

May Purity's white robe be spread, 

In ample fulness, round thy form ! 
Earth's choicest joys on thee be shed ! 

Life's sunshine thine, without the storm ! 
And when the things of time and sense 

Shall fade, as stars when day is dawning— 
Oh, may thy soul soar gladly hence, 

To bask in Heaven's eternal morning ! 
Hartford, August, 1839. 



138 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



JUNE. 
BY M. A. DODD. 

I sing thy beauties now, 
Month of the golden morn and sunny noon ; 
For fairest of the sister-three art thou, 

O lovely, smiling June ! 

How gay this world of ours, 
When thou dost all around rich roses fling ; 
And to the hill- side, and the garden bowers, 

Bloom in profusion bring. 

Now is the time for hope ; 
Now should the poet's dial tell the hours 
Which marks the moments by the buds that opo, 

Or folding of the flowers. 

For those who seek her love, 
Nature holds court in a gay-decked saloon, 
Where the rich tapestry is all inwove 

With leaves and flowers of June. 

Sweet doth the music come 
From zephyr's harp in the green branches stirr'd, 
The lay of glancing streams, and insect hum, 

And song of summer bird. 



139 



The morning sunlight shines, 
Robing in golden mist the laughing stream — 
Shedding a glory where the red rose twines, 

And many dew-drops gleam. 

The moonbeams pale and mild, 
Look down upon the buds that folded sleep, 
Like a young mother watching o'er her child, 

With love so pure and deep. 

Thy joyous presence lends 
To every heart that droops, its cheering boon : 
Oh, blessed is the bounteous hand that sends 

The leaves and flowers of June. 



140 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



THE SWALLOW. 

BY WILLIAM FALCONER. 

" Oh, downcast bouI ! like it thou wert as gay, 
When Life was in its May." 

I. 

When Youth's bright years went by like Summer r 

hours, 
Their sunny brows arrayed in Summer flowers- 
Ami through the Future's void Hope's warm smile' 
glowed, 

Cheering my onward road- 
Nursed by the sun of my prosperity, 
My spirit teemed with generous Poesy, 
And soared to Heaven's gate on raptured wing, 

A free and glorious thing, 
Pure as a sylph amid the blue of June, 
When forest-boughs their leafy harps attune, 
And blend their music with the heavens above, 

In one sweet hymn of Love. 

II. 

The gladsome Swallow thus, i' the balmy weather, 

When Spring and it revisit us together, 

Sports through the rain-washed blue, and builds its 

bower 
Within the loftiest tower : 
Changeful as Thought — companion of the breeze — 
Brushing with snow-flaked breast the cloudlet's 

fleece— 



THE SWALLOW. 141 

Now in the willowed lake its long wing dipping, 

With liquid silver dripping — 
Then up again, as if 't were not of earth, 
Among the skyey boughs it wheels in mirth, 
Or through the hoary turret's loopholes narrow, 

Darts like a barbed arrow. 

III. 
But when the thunder o'er the hills is pealing, 
And storm-clouds slow o'er Heaven's blue fields are 

stealing, 
While the chill mist falls shroud-like o'er the vale, 

Turning the waters pale — 
In circles narrowing, close to earth it skims, 
While forest birds have hushed their warbled hymns, 
As if it something sought— but soon above 

It finds its nest of love. 

IV. 

And thus, my soul, when sorrow's blasts have blown, 
And Care's dull mist around my path is thrown, 
While gathering clouds foretell the coming storm, 

In its most vengeful form — 
Flits o'er the chequered Past, around each spot 
Where Love hath dwelt, long sanctified by Thought, 
Seeking some relic faint, yet left behind, 

Of all that smiled so kind — 
Its storm-steeped wings too weak to reach, on high 
Fancy's soft nest amid the perfumed sky, 
Above the mist that robs it of the beams 

Which lit its earlier dreams. 



142 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

V. 

When on pale Autumn Winter pours his wrath, 
And sweeps the rose-leaves from the woodland path, 
And of their leafy honors strips the bowers, 

Widowed of all their flowers — 
The summer swallow, on exploring wing, — 
Led by bright Hope, the sister of the Spring, — 
Finds, in the realms of Morn, a tranquil home, 

Beyond the billow's foam. 
O ! may my soul, when wintry Life is flown, 
And my frail dust is garnered 'neath the stone, 
Find peaceful rest — like it on brighter shore, 

As fond I deemed of yore, 
When, at my mother's knee, that page I read 
Which speaks of Him whose brow with anguish 

bled— 
'Parted before us, to prepare a place 

Before His Father's face ! 

Paris, 1839, 



143 



THE FKIENDS WE LOVED IN CIHLDHOOD. 



BY C. W. EVEREST. 

The friends we loved in childhood, 

O, whither have they fled? 
Beneath the village churchyard, 

They slumber with the dead! 
In peace they rest beneath the sod, 

Their earthly labors o'er : 
O, the friends that we loved in our early youth, 

We shall meet on earth no more ! 

The friends we loved in childhood, 

When life was young and gay — 
How blithesome were their bosoma 

Throughout the joyous day ; 
And lightly tripped their merry feet 

Across the flowery plain — 
But the friends that we loved in our early youth 

We ne'er shall meet again ! 

The friends we loved in childhood, 

How fond their memory seems ! 
They haunt us in our slumbers— 

They whisper in our dreams ! 



144 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

And then we wake, with saddened heart, 

To find our bliss but vain : 
For the friends that we loved in our early youth, 

We ne'er shall meet again ! 

The friends we loved in childhood, 

O, peaceful be their rest; 
And green may be the willow, 

That sighs above their breast ! 
And when in death we lowly sleep, 

Secure from all our pain ; — 
O, the friends that we loved in our early youth, 

May we meet in peace again ! 



A WALK IN THE FOREST. 145 



A WALK IN THE FOREST. 



BY MISS M. L. GARDNER. 

I love thy calm and cool retreats— sweet wood ! 
Above— around me — leaf and bough entwined, 
Shut out from hearing and the visual sense, 
The sounds and sights that tell me of the world — 
Its cares — its envyings, and its bitter strifes — 
Making me loath existence ! 'Mid thine aisles, 
I feel a spiritual presence, ever near, 
Breaking the ties that bind my soul to earth, 
And earth-born thoughts ; and I can soar away, 
As on the zephyr's airy pinions borne, 
Till life becomes etherial, and is lost 
As in a new existence, rapt with joy 
That seems almost divine. 

It oft is said — 
That sin hath blighted all this beauteous earth ; 
That all things bright and pleasant to the eye, 
When tasted, " turn to ashes on the lip !" 
Thou who thus thinkest— thou whose ear is pained 
By tales of envy, jealousy or strife, — 
Enter with me these calm sequestered shades 
Leaving behind thee all those passions vile, 
That in their workings move the restless world. 
10 



146 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Sit down with me, upon the vine-wrapped rock- 
Hoary with centuries of storm and age — 
Beneath this gnarled and ancient tree, whose roots 
Glide serpent-like into its crevices. The brook 
That sparkles as it passes by, bedecks 
Our grassy carpet with a silver fringe! 
The sun from 'mid his azure sphere steals through 
The woven shadows, with a softened light, 
Like Faith's pure ray, upon a care-worn heart. 
The gentle breeze, in dalliance with my hair, 
Parteth it on my forehead, that my brow 
May feel its coolness, while my heart drinks In 
The sweetness it hath stolen from the flowers. 
Birds, 'mid the branches round us, joyous sing, — 
And insects, on their gilded wings flit by, 
Pleased with the softened sunshine, and move on 
In mazy motions, e'en as if their dance 
Was, by the singing brooks sweet music moved. 

There is no sadness here ; but fnnocence 
And twin-born Peace and Love, have here their 

home ! 
Here we may learn that the primeval curse 
Fell not in vengeance ; that to guilt alone 
Is misery wed — it is not wed to earth. 

Ye who endure, learn how you may enjoy ! 
Ye who at heart are sick of earth's vain joys, 
Its gilded pomp, its heartless fellowships, 
And all the ills, that mist-like dim the eye, 
Or seem to mar the perfect work of God, — 
Go to some sweet retreat like this, and list 
To Nature's kindly ministrations there. 



A WALK IN THE FOREST. 147 

The forest's wind-born sighs— the pleasant sound 
Of distant torrent, and of rippling brook — 
The song of birds— the insects' cheerful hum— 
These with a strong yet soothing spell, shall change 
Life from endurance to enjoyment sweet ; 
And thou to toil or pleasure may go forth, — 
Thine heart to kindly sympathies attuned, — 
Pleased with the birds, the flowers, and with thy 

kind, 
And happy with the fair and blessed world. 

Hingham, Mass, 1839. 



148 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



THE TURQUOISE RING. 



In Miss Martineau's novel of Doerbrook, the heroine is made 
to preserve, with great care, a Turquoise ring, which her lover had 
given her in the early days of his attachment, and, during a long 
period of doubt and estrangement, to believe that while its hues 
continued undimmed, his faith remained to her unbroken. So 
poetic and fervent a belief met with its appropriate reward— the 
Turquoise remained bright, and the lover returned. 



The Turquoise ring ! 'twas a gift of power, 
Guarding her heart in that weary hour, 
As a magic spell, as a gem of light, 
As a pure, pure star amidst clouds of night ; 
Bringing back to the pale, pale cheek its bloom, 
Strengthening her faith in that hour of doom : 
There was hope, there was trust in its living hue ; 
The gem was bright, and the lover true ; 
As a sign to her heart, as a sign to her eye, 
The one bright gleam of a troubled sky. 

The Turquoise ring ! oh, the olden time 
Had many a magic tale and sign- 
Bright gifts of treasure on land and on sea, 
But nought for the heart or the memory ; 
For what might the fairy lamp of old 
Yield to its owner, but gems and gold ? 
And to her who sat in that lonely hall, 
The Turquoise ring was worth them all ; 



THE TURQUOISE RING. 149 

For the heart hath a dearer wealth than lies 

In the Earth's wide halls and argosies, 

And its hopes are more precious than gems or gold, 

When richest and rarest, by miser told ; 

For what had been gems that brightly shone, 

To her who sat in her grief alone 1 

Oh, the Turquoise ring had a spell of power — 

This was a gift for the weary hour, 

Linking the future to all the past, 

Breathing of moments too bright to last, 

Till they came in the light of their living bliss, 

To soothe, to gladden an hour like this. 

Oh, Love hath wings, they have said, who knew — 

And that Love hath wings, is a story true ; 

But there lingers a bloom on his early hours, 

When his wings are folded 'midst opening flowers, 

When the streams are bright, and the sky is fair, 

And the hearts too happy that trust him there, 

There lingers a bloom, and there rests a glow— 

A charm that the Earth not again may know ; 

And when from that resting place he flies, 

Oh, linked with a thousand memories, 

Each bud and each leaf, by our fond tears wet, 

May breathe of his sweetness and beauty yet. 

So with the Past, and its holy love — 
Bo with its hopes that soared above, 
And the visions that came to her nightly rest- 
Was the Turquoise ring to her finger pressed. 
Oh, beautiful to her its light ! 
Could she forget that pleasant night, 



150 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

When first her finger's slender round 
Was with the golden circlet hound, 
And hlushed she — not to see it shine, 
But at the low tone — "Love, be mine V 

Since then, since then, unchanged its hue, 
Her hope, her trust, alike were true ; 
But pale at times that cheek so bright, 
And dimmed those eyes of living light, — 
For dreams were hers of pain and dread, — 
Yet still the ring its lustre shed: 
They met and parted, as of yore 
Fond hearts have met and chilled before ; 
And coldness, sadness, fear had been 
Like cloud upon the sunny scene ! 

Yet Woman's love will always strive, 
And Woman's faith through all things live ; 
And beautiful the maiden's truth, 
And beautiful her trusting youth : — 
Through all, through all, the Turquoise ring 
A dream, a hope, a joy could bring ; 
And still, if clear and bright its hue, 
The trust was firm— the lover true ! 

Oh, gift of power ! it brought, at last, 
A bright, bright future for the past! 
Oh, gift of power ! that cheek once more 
Wore the rich bloom that blushed of yore: 
Oh, gift of power ! who would not sing 
For me, for me, the Turquoise ring ! 
For me, for me, when living Faith 
Faints in a world of Change and Death — 



THE TURQUOISE RING. 151 

When sick with fear the heart may bo, 
And sad, oh sad, the memory — 
When dimly, dimly, dimly glow 
The hopes, the trust that clings below — 
Then give me, give the Turquoise ring, 
Or the pure faith— a better thing! 

Lucy Hooper. 
Brooklyn, L. I., Sept. 10, 1839. 



152 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



THE EVENING LAY. 

BY C. W. EVEREST. 

The sun had sunk in stately mien, 

Behind the glowing west; 
And Nature spread her loveliest scene, 

To tranquilize the breast : 
Wooed by the hour, I wandered forth, 

Far from the city's strife; 
Forgetting, as of nothing worth, 

The joys and ills of life. 

The silvery moonbeams kissed the flowers, 

In Summer's loveliest trim ; 
The birds within their silent bowers, 

Had ceased their evening hymn: 
Unconscious, through a smiling vale, 

My path had led afar ; 
When on the evening's gentle gale, 

I heard a light guitar. 

A maiden kneeled within a grove, 

Bathed in the hallowed glow ; 
Made sacred by the holiest love 

A mortal heart can know : 
Here she had wandered all alone, 

From home and friends away; 
And in a voice of sweetest tone 

She breathed an Evening Lay. 



THE EVENING LAY. 153 

It did not to the class belong 

By Genius' favorites given ; 
'Twas but a simple evening song, 

Of grateful thanks to Heaven : 
Far from the crowd, she knew no fear 

Her debt of love to pay; 
And thought that only God was near, 

To hear her Evening Lay. 

I gazed in awe : so fair, so young, 

Glowing with holiest fire ; 
It seemed an angel's sinless tongue, 

An angei's golden lyre ! 
Gently the numbers died away ; 

I saw the maid depart ; 
And sorrow with resistless sway, 

Stole o'er my saddened heart. 

I lingered, as by magic spell, 

Along that valley's plain ; 
Then gave a look of sad farewell, 

And sought the world again : 
The dreams of bliss— hope's flattering tale, 

Enticed my feet afar ; 
But oft would fancy rove the vale, 

And hear the sweet guitar. 

I've tasted what earth calls delight, 

I've bowed at Folly's shrine ; 
And wealth has opened on my sight 

Its beauties, half divine : 
But what are all the swelling train, 

That roll in pride along 1 
I'd give them all to hear again 

That country maiden's song. 



154 THE MOSS-UOSE. 

Where Pleasure's stream has murmured by, 

I've knelt me down to sip ; 
I've drank the light of Beauty's eye, 

The smile of Beauty's lip; 
And pomp has played its wildering part, 

And wit has ruled the day; 
But nothing yet has touched my heart, 

Like that sweet Evening Lay. 

I've stood beneath the fretted dome, 

To holiest worship given, 
When the loud anthem's swelling tono 

Pealed to the listening heaven : 
Awhile, entranced, I heard the strain, — 

Then turned in grief away, 
And sighed, to hear but once again, 

That simple Evening Lay ! 

When tossing on the couch of rest, 

A stranger to repose, 
And harrowing cares distract the breast, 

Of earth and earthly woes ; 
When plodding o'er life's mournful track, 

To wretchedness a prey ; 
Then soft on Memory's pinions back 

Is borne that Evening Lay. 
Let Age its onward numbers roll, — 

'Twill calm my troubled breast, 
And heal the sorrows of a soul 

By earthly cares distressed : 
But though before its withering pace 

Our early loves decay — 
It cannot from my mind efface 

That simple Evening Lay. 



THE DEPARTURE. 155 

THE DEPARTURE. 

Affectionately inscribed to his eldei sister: 
BY MELZAR GARDNER. 

A bright, a glorious day in Spring! 

No cloud upon the azure deep : — 
A morn so lovely, it might bring 

New sweetness to an infant's sleep ! 
The seaman fondly lingers there — 
The white sail woos the fragrant air — 
His heart with Hope is beating high — 
A tear is in the young wife's eye ! 

'Tis noon !— across the broad blue sea, 

The gallant barque speeds proudly on ; 
And joy-lit eyes look up to see 

Her pennons floating in the sun. 
The whirling eddies mark her way, 
And 'neath her prow, the snow-white spray, 
Like newly crumbled silver, gleams 
Ami sparkles in the day-god's beams! 

'Tis eve ! — the sea-bird sports beside 
Her glowing pathway o'er the deep, 

Where, like a war-horse nerved with pride, 
From wave to wave she seems to leap. 

Each pulse is quickened, as the blast 

Distends the sail, or bends the mast; 

And when the sun hath left the sky, 

Hope warms the heart and lights the eye 



156 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Alone — upon a beetling hill, 

That braves the ocean's breaking surge- 
The fond young wife is lingering still, 

And gazing on the horizon's verge. 
One long, long look of love — the last! 
The proud ship from her sight hath past ! 
She turns away— she breathes a prayer — 
Her hope, her love, her heart is there ! 

Speed on, speed on, thou gallant barque ! 

That gentle heart is with thee now, 
Where tempests gather fierce and dark, 

Or favoring breezes gently blow : — 
That love shall bless thy sunny path, 
That hope defy the storm-god's wrath ; 
And thou shalt bring, from o'er the main, 
The wanderer to his home again ! 

Hartford, September, 1839. 



SONG IN JUNE. 157 



SONG IN JUNE. 

BY W. FALCONER. 
I. 

'Tis the leafy month of June; 
Brooks now sing a quiet tune ; 
None can hail the morn too soon — 

Wherefore sleepest thou t 
Deem'st thou that the argent moon 

Yet shines on Heaven's brow ? 

II. 

Amber beauty fills the bowera, 
Where the elder, rich in flowers, 
Sparkles in the am'rous showers, 

In our chapel green : 
Let us spend the summer hours, 

Loving all unseen. 

III. 

Birds our choristers shall be, 

As on Fancy's fairy lea, 

Like the sweet, harmonious bee 

In the scented air : 
Thought's pure passion-flowers, shall we 

Seek to banish care. 



158 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

IV. 

Fays are rocked i' the fresh hurts ; 
Dryads roam the brightening woods ; 
Naiads, 'neath their gelid floods, 

Chase the fishes bright : 
Why, in cities' dim abodes, 

Lose such full delight 3 

V. 

TheRk but chains and settled gloom, 
Thirst of gold and early tomb — 
Hope and Health together bloom, 

Twin flowers here in birth : 
Why thy golden Youth consume 

'Mid the city's dearth "? 

Versailles, 1839. 



159 



SONNETS : 



Y O. W. KVBRBST. 



To "J. D.,"Authu» of Spring, Summer, Autumn and Wintei 
Bonuets. 



Bard of the pleasant lyre ! where'er thy strain 

Breaks on the stillness of the listening air — 
Whether in Spring-time, o'er the grassy plain, 

With careless step you rove, mid flowrets fair — 
Whether through Summer's fervid walks you stray, 
And mark the waters and the winds at play — 

Whether mid Autumn's stores of ripening gold 
Thou rovest, pensive, mid the dying flowers — 

Or Winter calls thee, with his voice cold, 
To muse, instructed, 'mong the leafless bowers — 
My heart is with thee : Through the joyous hours 

I roam, with thee, o'er scenes so proudly told ! 
By brook, by glen, on mountain-top I stand — 
Turns my fond soul to thee, and my loved Father- 
land ! 



160 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

II. 
Dixon ! our own New England land is fair, 

And happy faces glad its pleasant vales ; 
And voices whisper on its haunted air, 

Where olden memories breathe their hallowed 
tales ! 
But come, my friend, and rove awhile with me, 
And Southern scenes shall spread a feast for thee ! 

The Bard is Nature's priest : where'er she reigns, 
There may he find an altar ; and his soul 

May offer up its incense ! Seek the plains 
Where the bright South doth woo with sweet control: 

Here noble hearts will cheer us ; while the strains 
Of warbling birds, more sweet than notes which 

stole 
From Orpheus' lyre, shall win us, for a time, 
To linger from our own, to bless the Southern clime ! 

North Carolina, August 22, 1839. 



MY SISTER. 161 



MY SISTER. 



BY WILLIAM FALCONER. 

friend, when T was very young 
I had a lovely sister— 

The word yet stammered on my tongue, 
When one May-morn I missed her. 

To me she was an angel mild — 
A most enduring mother — 

For since I was a wanton child, 
I never knew another. 

1 sat heneath the lilac spray, 
Plucking the silver daisies, 

When like a cloud o'er summer-day, 

A group of yearning faces 
Came, and with tears that spoke their pain, 

To my kind Helen bore me ; 
Heedless the treasure cancelled then, 

Which time could ne'er restore me. 

She kissed me, and her lipa were cold, 
Her cheek each moment flushing, 

Like rose leaves on the garden mould, 
Still in their ruin blushing. 

11 



162 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Long wistfully she gazed on me; 

Striving her pain to smother, 
Then cried, to let her anguish free, 

" My brother, Oh my brother !" 

They laid her 'neath the churchyard stone, 

Among the dew-dipped roses ; 
That stone is melancholy's throne, 

'Neath which her head reposes. 
And there I came each summer eve, 

To breathe the prayer she taught me, 
Kissing the flowers that bid me grieve, 

Methought she there had brought me. 

They say she had her mother's brow, 

Her liquid eye of sadness, 
Her fading sunset smile, which now 

Is turned to morning gladness. 
Serene amid my earliest dream, 

I see her witching features ; 
Oh! saints benignly fair must seem, 

Earth having such soft creatures. 

Her portrait feeds my eager eye, 

By some young limner painted, 
Who drew from yonder golden sky, 

An inspiration sainted. 
O blessed be the hand that drew 

That smile, that eye of sorrow, 
That placid brow of lily hue, 

Where time can plant no furrow. 



MY SISTER. 163 

Thou art not dead, my sister sweet, 

I see thee eve and morning, 
Thy smile of early days I greet, 

The mountain slope adorning. 
I feel thee in the zephyr's sigh, 

Around me freshly blowing ; 
I see thy timid twilight eye 

In heaven-streaked sapphire glowing. 

When rancorous spleen and worldly pride, 

Swell darkly in my bosom, 
I feel thou weepest by my side. 

And when the jasmine blossom 
Falls on my brow, I know it is 

From thee a gentle token ; 
Oh ! were it not for thoughts like this, 

Long since my heart were broken. 

Bright is thy bower of loveliness — 

Dark is the gloom before me ; 
Yet, Oh ! for thee 'tis deeper bliss, 

Here to be watching o'er me. 
Be thy sweet face the first I meet 

At death's cold gate, when dying, 
And that dread change for me more sweet, 

On thy kind smile relying ! 
Taris, 1838. 



164 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



TO REVENGE. 

Demon of darkness! Mercy's potent foe! 
Why dost thou climb to Reason's throne, 
And snatch the peaceful monarch down, 
To make Man's breast a weary waste of wo 1 
Pluck the beacon from the tower, 
In Shipwreck's melancholy hour, — 
And let thy dagger, beauty's bosom seek, 
And wipe it, reeking, on her faded cheek, — 
Speak of thy rule in antiquated seats, 
Where shame in war, and vice in peace retreats ; 
Blacken the earth with sorrow, if thy will, 
O warrior, boast thee brave, thou art a demon still ! 

Thy finger points to deeds — thou standest still, 
Like a wild hunter to his fawning brute, 
With Man, a menial at thy foot, 
To creep around thy prey, and do thy will : 
Mark thy servant bending low, 
Annibal, the Roman foe ! 
On the cold Alps he blew War's wild alarms, 
Italia heard the blast, and woke to arms ; 
But he at Capua, made a truce with war, 
And left th' espoused escutcheon of thy car — 
Proud Xerxes failed to pay the debt to Greece, 
Tho' Jason thou didst help, to steal the golden fleece | 



TO REVENGE. 165 

Cannot the tyrant sleep awhile ?— he wakes ! 
Rouse, then, — ah, rouse th' Eumenides ; 
Like sheeted goblins, if thou please — 
At dame Alecto's toilet fix thy snakes : 
Mount old Ruin's gaunt, pale steed- 
Fly where men and nations bleed, 
War with the man who doth thy power hate, 
Lest ever peace, o'er thee Revenge ! be great — 
And be thou sated— then thy weapons sheathe, 
Bind to thy brow Mars' sanguinary wreath- 
Then may mankind abjure thy awful reign, 
And once to Peace allied, beneath her sway remain. 

Abington, Pa. 



166 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



THE POETRY OF LIFE. 

I. 

The poetry of Life ! — 'tis seen around us — 

Through the whole scenery of our earth so fair- 
In the good gifts with which our God hath crowned 
us- 
Bright skies and clouds— broad seas and sunny 
air. 
There's poetry in the distant water — falling 

O'er rocks in forests wild, where mountains rise, 
And nature with an hundred tongues is calling 
On us to drink where her pure treasure lies. 

II. 

There's poetry in the aspect of a mountain— 

The many sparkling rills which from it flow — 
The silvery gushes of a limpid fountain, 

As on it dances to some vale below. 
There's poetry in a wild and noble river, 

In silence gliding to old ocean's breast — 
Or when it dashes forth as from a quiver, 

In snowy garb and dazzling silver dressed. 

III. 

There's poetry in an ancient dome — decaying 
Through many sunshines, and from many storms— 

The twining ivy, round its portals straying 
In antic festoons, and fantastic forms. 



THE POETRY OF LIFE. 167 

There's poetry in a rural cottage dwelling, 
Afar from marts of strife and busy crowds. 

While all around the choral songs are swelling, 
Above — the azure sky and fleecy clouds. 

IV. 

There's poetry in the quietude of even, 

As fades the daylight — in the golden West, 
And when the stars shine forth from distant heaven , 

Like brilliant diamonds in an azure crest. 
'Tis the rapt time when praise ascendeth 

From the full soul like incense — in the air — 
When day'its splendor^with the evening blendeth 

And tuneful hearts blend poetry with prayer. 

Auburn, Nov. 1839. S. S. Y. 



168 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



SONNET. 



On Nilus' banks, behold a gathered crowd ! 
Where Egypt's sons and Egypt's lovely daughters, 
Gaze in inute awe, above the rushing waters. 

The morn is sweet— the sky without a cloud ; 

That throng is hushed— the gay, the poor, the proud; 
And all upon the glowing Orient gaze, — 
For when the sun darts forth his earliest rays, 

Great Memnon's summit lifts its voice aloud, 
With music ravishing. From God's own hand, 

There is a temple,— 'tis the human soul ; 

And when at pitying Mercy's sweet demand, 
The Son of Righteousness doth on it shine, 
'Tis filled, subdued, with harmony divine — 

As if heaven's music through its members stole. 



169 



SONG. 

BY M. A. DODD. 

Mart, the summer hours are swiftly flying, 
And my light bark is out upon the sea ; 

From the blue West the sunset's light is dying, 
As sad I turn to bid farewell to thee. 

Soon shall I be in other lands a rover : 

Lady ! my short, bright dream of love is over. 

Hope pointed to a brilliant star before me, 
Love filled my heart with a wild burning dream, 

And Poesy had wove her bright spell o'er me — 
Thou ! wert the star, the vision, and the theme. 

Soon shall I be 'neath other skies a rover : 

Lady ! my short, sweet dream of love is over. 

The harp is mute which woke to thee its numbers, 
And hope's delusive star has darkly set ; 

Within my soul the tide of passion slumbers ; 
My task is now to wander and forget. 

Soon shall I be in other lands a rover : 

Lady ! my brief, bright dream of love is over. 



12 



170 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



THE DESERTED BURIAL GROUND. 

BT REV. JOHN WILLIAMS. 

September's sunset ! down yon quiet lane, 

Where waves on either hand the ripening grain, 

Walk, as with pace adapted to the hour, 

Toward yon old gate 'neath vine-enwreathed bower. 

A holy stillness dwells the place around — 

A solemn spot — an ancient burial ground. 

Here on some time-worn tablet may we rest, 

While glows with parting day, the golden west : 

Gaze on green field, with many a graceful tree, 

Whence pour gay birds their evening symphony ; 

On mountain where the softened sunlight sleeps, 

With rosy robe invests its shaggy steeps ; 

Lights here a lofty peak, there lost in shade, 

Tells of the deep cool dell, or breezy glade : 

On sheltered hamlet bid our sight repose, 

Whence comes the evening hum of labor's close : 

Or turning where around us frequent rise 

Old stones with carving rude, and quaint device, 

Muse as in dreamy state reclined we lie, 

These records of antique simplicity ; 

While to the current of our thoughts, meantime, 

Yon river murmurs in accordant chime. 

No fresh piled mound here tells the saddening tale 

Of spirit's parting pang, and mourners's wail ! 



THE DESERTED BURIAL GROUND. 171 

No tall rank grass here pictures to the eye, 
The festering remnants of mortality. 
The wild flower rising gracefully and light. 
Bending on stem so wavy and so light, 
Drinks but the purest dews of bright-eyed even, 
And owes its fragrance to the breath of heaven. 
Thus 'mid half felt realities we gain 
The church-yard's moral, while we miss its pain. 
Here side by side old warrior forms repose ; 
And the same clod perchance may now enclose 
Their crumbled bodies, who in life had said, 
The white man ne'er could mingle with the red !* 
How solemnly it tells — this mouldered clay — 
The littleness of man, and man's brief day ; 
While mortal forms that erst in furious fight, 
Strove for some fancied or some ill-gained right ; 
Hearts that with deep and deadly hatred burned, 
Nor e'er to pity's kindly accents turned, 
Decayed and mouldered 'neath the self-same sod, 
Now closely mingling form one common clod ! 
Oh may not thus the souls of every kin, 
That ever shall be, or that e'er hath been, 
Joined in one love, one only Lord adore, 
And all be peace where all was hate before ? 
Such shall be when earth's films are purged away, 
And man hath wakened in eternal day ! 



* The Burial Ground, which suggested the thoughts contained 
1 these lines, had been used for purposes of interment by both 
/hites and Indians. 



172 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

But now from cottage chimneys smoke curls forth, 
Where gather household groups, round home's dear 

hearth ; 
Now on the hill tops deeper shades descend, 
And tree, town, field in misty dimness blend ; 
Leave we the sleepers to the length of night, 
Broke but by sound of stream, or owlet's flight. 



A LETTER FROM THE OLD DOMINION. 173 



A LETTER FROM THE OLD DOMINION. 

BY A VKRMOKTER. 

To Miss C. G. C. 

Dear Cate, a year has flitted by 

Since that half sad, half merry night— 
Our last at home — when every eye 

Betwixt a tear and smile was bright ! 
When thou with bounding heart wert going 

From those whose love no words could tell, 
And they with saddened looks bestowing 

The oft-repeated warm farewell ! 
If then, when many voices blessed thee, 
And lips more privileged caressed thee, 
In sadness and in silence there, 
I took no kiss, and spoke no prayer ; 
Yet, midst that kindred company, 
None loved thee more unfeignedly ! 
Nay ! do not frown: for He doth know, 
Who formed the heart, that not the snow 
Which on the north wind's pinion flies, 
Or on the mountain's summit lies, 
Is from ail earthly stain more free 
Than my affection, Cate, for thee ! 

I loved you as a merry child, 
A pretty and mischievous one, 



174 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

With eye as bright and step as wild 

As age e'er loved to look upon ! 
And when a few brief seasons o'er, 

That step and eye grew more sedate, 
I had, though you loved others more, 

A brother's kindness for thee, Cate ! 

Since that sweet night, around thy heart 

New friends their wreaths of love have twined, 
And colder, now, they say thou art, 

To those to whom you then were kind. 
Somewhat, perchance, I might complain 
(But that I knew complaint were vain) 
Of promised letter, long forgot, 
And kindly message answered not; 
But let them pass : it is not strange, 
When all are changing, thou shouldst change, 
And little claim have 1 to be 
More than each common friend to thee ; 
I only ask for that which all 

You long have known, alike may share, 
When pensive hours their names recall, 

That I be unforgotten there ; 
That none but pleasant thoughts may be 
Twined with thy memory of me ! 

I write thee from a " land where deeds 

Of glory anciently were done," 
Whose history, childhood earliest reads, 

And young hearts thrill to think upon. 
Since last I met thee, I have gazed 

Upon the place where Jamestown stood ; 



A LETTER FROM THE OLD DOMINION. 175 

The church which first the settlers raised, 

Peering above the underwood, 
Is all that's left to mark the spot 
Where first the white man reared his cot ! 
'Twas here that Smith's bold cheek grew wan 
Beneath the arm of Powhatan, 
Which, lifted high, wasjust descending, 

When she— the noble and the young- 
While all around dark brows were bending — 

To save the pale-faced stranger, sprung ! 
And history's muse, and poet's lyre, 
Still with undying zeal conspire 
To bind a wreath of purest fame 
About that Indian maiden's name ; 
And not the proudest queen in story 
Can vie with Pochahontas' glory ! 
I've seen the ruined walls, from whence 

The voice of Patrick Henry, heard 
In strains of thrilling eloquence, 

A nation's slumbering passion stirred ! 
Cornwallis' cave I've stood within, 
And trod the field he could not win, 
Where freedom's right and freedom's might, 
Triumphant met on Yorktown's height! 

I write thee from a land where spring 

In place of dreary winter, reigns, 
Where flowers scarce cease from blossoming, 

And soft winds blow o'er verdant plains. 
Yet here— where noble deeds were done, 
Yet here— beneath a warmer sun, 
I proudly name my place of birth, 
The best, the happiest land on earth ! 



176 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

What tho' the wintry tempest's shock, 

The pines upon our mountains rock ; 

What tho' the flowers for months are bowed 

Beneath the snow's wide spreading shroud ; 

Tho' drear the night wind's whistlings be, 

Which round our eaves sound mournfully ; 

Yet bright fires there are blazing high, 

And laughing circles crowding nigh, 

And merry maidens join in song, 

Or grandams tell their stories long, 

Or beaux, who with the parties mix, 

Talk to papas of politics, 

And with many a word and smile, 

Steal bright-eyed daughters hearts the while ; 

Perhaps, averse to ruder play, 

The sober student brings his book, 
And hopes in this more gentle way, 

To win some fair one's favoring look ; 
For whither shall we seek to find 
The lads more true — the maids more kind ! 
And thus, around the cheerful hearth, 
With conversation, books, and mirth, 
Or else abroad — away ! away ! 
In the exhilarating sleigh; 
With hearts forever warm and light, 
We hasten winter's tardy flight ! 
And when the spring has brought its flowers, 
What land, in beauty, equals ours 1 

But better— better far — its sod 
None but the free have ever trod ! 



A LETTER FROM THE OLD DOMINION. 177 

No tyrant-liberty there waves 
A spangled banner over slaves ! 
For this I love Vermont, altho' 

Cold are her storms and late her spring, 
And wheresoe'er my footsteps go, 

My heart can know no wandering. 
Each hour of thought brings fresh to mind 
The smiles of those I left behind ; 
And many an unforgotten word, 

In kindness spoken long ago, 
And tones of silvery laughter heard 

In happy hours ; and soft and low 
The solemn tone of evening prayer 
I used to hear, when with you there ! 

Now Cate, adieu ! may hope and love 

For you their fairest garlands twine, 
Life's sky be ever bright above, 

Or through its clouds may rainbows shine ! 
And ever thine that calmer joy — 

That peace, from Heaven alone descending ; 
That hope, naught earthly can destroy ; 

That love, eternally unending ! 
Oh serve thy God ! and when the wing 

Of gladness speeds thee joyously, 
And in the hour of suffering, 

He will thy guide and comfort be ! 
And at that consecrated time, 

When happy thoughts to Heaven you raise, 
Oh pray for him who wreathes this rhyme — 

The playmate of your girlhood's days ! 



178 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Tho' weak and erring— passion tossed, 

His hopes by sin's dark cloud o'ercast, 
He yet, when life's rough sea is crossed, 
May rest with thee in heaven at last! 

Belle-farm, Gloucester Co., Virginia. 



THE CURFEW BELL. 179 



THE CURFEW BELL. 

BY WILLIAM FALCONER. 

When 'neath the folding-star the curfew bell 
Tolls, and dim shadows nestle in the dell ; 
When friends are few, and even the few are cold, 
I think on days of old ! 

From hoary Druid oaks the clear tones come, 
And melt away through evening's cloud-piled dome ; 
Summon they back thejoyous spirits bold 

They called from sport of old 1 

Spirit of her I loved in youth so well, 
Surely you hear with me that gentle bell, 
Though twenty years above your clay have rolled- 
Sylph of the days of old ! 

•Sweet curfew bell— thy tolling seems to me 
The falling murmur of youth's summer sea, 
IVben gay our barques went through its liquid gold, 
In the fair days of old ! 

When pulses deep that struggle in my breast, 
5o feverish now, have worn themselves to rest— 



180 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

Toll a low requiem o'er my humble mould, 
Voice of the days of old ! 

For none will mourn when slowly I depart — 
My memory glows but in one friendly heart, 
And he is far— his eyes strange stars behold- 
Far as the days of old! 
Paris, 1828. 



SOMKTHING ABOUT FLOWERS. 181 

SOMETHING ABOUT FLOWERS. 

BY RICHARD BACON, JR. 

The author of Pelham, whose writings are enriched 
with aphorisms of a mind keen in observation of 
character, has somewhere said, that " where you see 
a flower in a cottage garden, you may be sure that 
the cottagers are wiser and better than their neigh- 
bors." I at first gave the saying a place in the 
scrap-book of memory, among shreds of fancy, and 
odd ends of poetry, but, having seen more of the 
world, I have since set it down upon a page of indis- 
putable maxims. Yes, Mr. Bulwer is right. And 
now, if I be whirling in a stage-coach, I cannot pass 
a flower-garden before the humblest cottage, with- 
out striving to catch a glimpse of the tenants : for 
with tulips, roses and geraniums, which breathe 
their fragrance for the poor man, I have learned to 
associate in my mind well bred children, with clean 
and gladsome face ; and elder sisters with neat ker- 
chief, smiling lips, and ringlets a la belle. 

With the man of wealth— I mean in the country— 
a flower-garden is almost a thing of course ; it is 
regarded as fashionable, and on his part it costs little 
or no sacrifice of ease to keep up, in this respect, with 
the style of his patrician neighbors. Hence, flow- 
ers before the mansion reared by affluence, give 
little or no indication of taste or character. But 
with him who has a cottage for a dwelling, it is dif- 
ferent. Perhaps the comforts of life for himself and 



182 THE MOSS-ROSE. 

family, are attained only at the price of daily labor ; 
and if a vine clamber upon his thatch, or a flower 
throws its blushes beneath his window, it indicates 
an innate love for the beautiful in nature, which 
prompts him to spend the little leisure that life's 
stern duties afford — and which, perhaps, his neigh- 
bor squanders at the haunts of inebriety— in beauti- 
fying his dwelling— the home of those with whom 
he exchanges love, yes, and I know that the jasmine, 
which he has planted, is watered and woven upon 
the trellis by her who shares his cares and pleas- 
ures ; and that the corner of the garden, pranked all 
over with pinks and violets, the little ones proudly 
call their own ; for it has been set apart to keep 
them from evil playmates, and to excite to industry. 
I say, those who make such employments their 
pastime, possess a spiritual love of the beautiful ; 
and you may be sure, that the same taste which 
prompts them to teach the woodbine to climb, and 
the rose to bud, will also lead them to cultivate the 
minds of themselves and children, and to educate 
those affections of the heart, which soften the ilia 
of life, and make the fire-side happy. Is it not, 
then, truly said, that such a family are wiser and 
better than their neighbors ? 

" She sketched from nature well, and studied flowers, 
Which was enough, alone, to love her for." 

An author, whose name I have forgotten, lends 
me this sentiment: "Never give your affections to 
a girl, who cherishes no love for flowers." Philoso- 
phy has not prompted a better maxim. Innocence 



SOMETHING ABOUT FLOWERS. 183 

and purity have ever been typified by flowers, and 
does not the love of an attribute lead to a fondness 
for its emblem 1 But is there not in the unsophisti- 
cated heart, an inherent love for those beautiful 
children of the sunshine 1 Else to what end are 
they strown along our pathway ? Wherefore are 
they made— for they add not to man's physical com- 

. fort— if there is nothing in the spiritual nature to 
which they minister ? There is such a principle — 
the flowers are not made in vain. What do the 

' dingy geraniums, so fondly nursed in the smoky city, 

' denote, but this same love of flowers, and a pining 

■ for their companionship 7 

/ Yes, the spirit has a chord, which, if strung 
aright, vibrates sweetest music when stirred by the 
breathings of nature's beauty ; and I am willing to 
believe, that the same sympathy of feeling, which 
links in fellowship hearts of a kindred purity, ex- 
tends to things inanimate, as well as to spirits of 

( happiness, and bands loveliness into one great sister- 

'hood. 

A poet has a thought which falls in with this 
notion : 

"And all earth's (lowers, so fair and sweet, 

Would flourish but awhile, 
If in return they could not meet 

The light of woman's smile." 

It is a German fancy that the angels love the 
flowers, and when upon the earth nfake them their 
abiding place. )•. 

" Abroad must thou go, on thy white bosom wear 
A nostgay, and doubt noi an angel is there ; 



184 THE MOSS-ROSE. 



Place a rose near thy bed nightly sentry to keep, 
And angels shall rock thee on roses to sleep." 



" Alas they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers! 
Are sleeping in their lowly beds with the good and fair of ours. 

Bryant. 

How solemnly does every thing around remind i 
man of his fallen estate ! The sentence of death 
hath passed upon all things ; and the flower with- 
ers in the midst of beauty. Well, there is a better 
land, where the spirit of loveliness shall dwell for- 
ever ; where fragrance shall ascend as incense, 
from flowers which can never fade ! 



C 32 89 




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